Son of Kings
by Jarlaxle Baenre
Summary: Andrin, son of Andrith, will one day inherit the throne of the reunited kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. But others have malicious designs that neither he nor his father suspect... T for battle scenes.
1. Part I: Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, everyone! My name is Jarlaxle, and now that I've (finally) finished my Harry Potter story, I can start on this one that I've had floating around in my mind for months now. So, first, my three disclaimers: number one, there are lots of details that I'm going to get wrong or completely ignore, so if you don't like that, don't read it. Number two, it's AU. And finally, the traditional one: all recognizable places, characters, et cetera, are J.R.R. Tolkien's. The rest belongs to yours truly.

Enjoy, and please review!

Chapter 1

"Betcha can't catch me!"

Grinning, the boy took off down the narrow hallway after his friend, who was fifty feet ahead of him. He paid no heed to the disgruntled soldiers he left in his wake, focusing on making his legs pump faster. He raced down a flight of stairs, dodged across a wide corridor, and dashed past the guards that stood at the door into the Tower of Ecthelion. One of them caught him by the collar of his tunic.

"Where do you think you're going, lad?"

He struggled in vain against the guard's grip, calling after his friend. "Let me go," he demanded, trying to pull away from his captor. "Belín!"

The boy he had been chasing halted next to a white tree that stood fifty feet from the entrance, panting for breath. They stood on the pinnacle of the Tower, from which they could see the surrounding land for many leagues. "Toldya you couldn't get me!"

"That's not fair!" the first boy whined, still fighting to get free. "I said, let me _go! _Belín, help me!"

"Your father wants to see you, my young prince," the guard said sternly, ushering him back into the Tower. "We're not supposed to let you out, and you're to go straight to his study. Off you go."

Grumbling, the boy glared after Belín, who was grinning mockingly, and then he pushed the guard's guiding hand away and stalked back through the doorway, tracing the familiar corridors to his father's study. He knocked on the door and said softly, "Father?"

"Come in."

The boy pushed the door open and peered inside. The room was warm, heated by a fire crackling in the grate; the walls were covered in bookshelves, which held the lore and history of Gondor from what the boy suspected was the beginning of time; a desk sat in the middle of the room, with a chair across from it. Sitting at the desk, his back to the door, was the boy's father.

The boy fidgeted nervously, having some idea what this was about. Without turning, his father motioned for him to sit in the chair in front of the desk. He took a seat and put his hands obediently in his lap, trying to look the picture of innocence.

There was a long minute of silence while the man at the desk finished writing and capped his inkbottle. Then he looked up piercingly at his son, who squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze. He waited for his father to speak, but he remained silent. The tension mounted with every passing second, until the boy burst out, "Alright, it was me, I did it, me and Belín smeared ink all over the captain's breastplate while he was asleep and hid his sword in the garden and ruined his quill."

He hunched over and glared rebelliously at the floor, flushing red. Had he looked up, he would have seen the smile tugging at the corners of his father's mouth, despite his best efforts to look stern. "Andrin," he started solemnly, forcing his lips into a frown, "I understand that you are still a child, but your behavior has gotten out of hand. You're nearly eleven; it is time you took some responsibility. Every time you escape my watch, you're doing something mischievous again—and don't even _try_ to blame it on your cousin," he added warningly as his son opened his mouth to protest. "Belín always joins you, but you're the one who goads him on. Whenever you're ill, he's a perfectly well-behaved boy."

"It was his fault this time, Father, really—"

"Andrin," his father interrupted sharply, "you have no excuse. You are the son of a king, and _you_ need to learn to set the example, not to follow like a mindless dog. If you are ever to lead this people, learn to lead your peers first."

Andrin made a face. "I don't _want _to lead the people," he muttered defiantly. "It's a boring job, sitting and writing and talking to your counselors all day."

The king smiled. "One day, my son, you will not look down on it as you do now."

The boy's eyes flashed. "I doubt it."

There was a knock on the door. The king turned and said, "Enter."

It opened, and in came a man with dark hair, gray eyes, and a wary posture. His eyes flickered over the scene, and Andrin fancied for a moment that when they found his face, a hungry look flashed in them, but he shook off the thought and stood up. "Can I go?" he asked his father.

"You may."

"Uncle, where's Belín?"

The newcomer shook his head. "Probably tearing up the flower beds. If you find him, tell him that his mother's looking for him."

As he left the room and closed the door behind him, he heard his uncle say, "Andrith, we need to speak." Then the door clicked shut, and he dashed down the corridor to track down his cousin.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Andrith, we need to speak."

"I agree," the king said dryly, leaning back in his chair. "Our sons are getting quite out of hand."

The man took a seat in the chair that had just been vacated by his nephew. "You know that's not what I mean," he said darkly, running a hand through his hair. "Rohan."

"Ah." The king scrutinized his brother. "I've heard your views on this matter, Drían."

"And I urge you with greater force than before: listen to me!"

"I have. I weighed your opinion impartially against mine, and I still think that my course of action is the right one. I will not go to war."

"It won't be long before Rohan moves against you. If you make the first move, you can gain the advantage. You have troops enough. You can have them marshaled within a week and to Edoras in another. If you do not strike first, Halin will, and you will regret it."

"Indeed, you are mistaken, my brother. I do not believe Rohan means to attack us, and while peace still stands, I will not be the one to break it. If Halin does, I am confident that we can defend Gondor adequately."

"Halin is no fool; he governs the Riddermark competently enough. He will be sure of victory before he strikes."

"Then he will not strike, for he can never be assured triumph against Gondor. He knows this."

"Then _you _are the fool!" Drían said angrily. "If you refuse to read the signs, Gondor will be defeated easily. He is amassing an army of Rohirrim. He is readying to attack."

"Please, Drían, do not lose your temper. Trust me to do what is best for my people."

Drían took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Andrith. I spoke in anger. I will trust your judgment, though I believe you judge wrong."

He left quickly, outwardly calm but inwardly seething. _What is he thinking? Does he not know that by taking Rohan, he could conquer all of Middle Earth? Nothing would stand in his way._

He strode down the corridor, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword. _That's the difference between us,_ he thought disdainfully. _He is content with Gondor as it is. He does not look to the lands that surround us, lands that offer so much opportunity if he would but reach out and grasp them!_

Fury quickening his steps, he found himself in his chambers. Rather than sitting at his desk, however, he paced distractedly up and down the floor. "Something has to be done," he muttered, gazing through his window at the sinking sun. _At the end of this, brother,_ he thought determinedly, _I will have my way. Gondor will go to war. _

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

"Father! Father!"

Andrith looked up as his son dashed into the garden where he sat. He put aside the parchment he had been writing on and raised his eyebrows mildly as a very excited Andrin halted beside him, panting for breath.

"Father, Uncle is going to Osgiliath to check on the garrison there, and he's taking Belín with him!"

Andrith frowned, but he didn't speak. Andrin continued anxiously, "Can I go?"

"It is fit that he should take Belín with him; Belín is his son. You are _my _son, and your place is here, with me."

His son made a face that said very clearly that he didn't want to be his son anymore. "But he's my uncle," he said defensively. "And anyway, Osgiliath is part of the kingdom that I'm going to rule when I grow up. How can I rule it if I've never even _been_ there?"

The king laughed. "What do you think your mother would say?"

He scowled and muttered rebelliously, "She wouldn't let me."

"Why not?"

"Because of two weeks ago when we snuck into the captain's room and smeared ink on his armor, and because of three days after that when we tied the sheets from our chambers to make a rope ladder, and because of yesterday when—"

"Don't tell me what you did yesterday," the king groaned, rubbing his temples. "I don't want to know. Maybe I should send you just to be rid of you."

Andrin's face brightened. "Really?"

"No."

"A good thing, too," came a third voice, approaching Andrin from behind. "I don't think my entire guard of twenty men could handle you _and_ Belín."

"Uncle," Andrin protested, "that's not fair. We would behave."

Drían looked at the king. "I think he would enjoy it, and he might learn something from it."

Andrith looked between his son and his brother. "You _want _him to go? Well, then, it seems I am overruled. But I can make one last stand; if your mother says you may go, you may."

The young prince's face fell. "But she won't let me!"

Andrith shrugged. "Then I guess you'll just have to stay and guard the Tower of Ecthelion while Belín goes off to battle monstrous orcs and behemoth cave trolls."

"May the gods grant that we meet none of _those,_" Drían said darkly, fingering the hilt of his sword. "That would mean that darkness is abroad once again."

"Father," Andrin begged, "_please_ let me go?"

"I don't see what harm could be done in his coming," his uncle added on his behalf, "save to weary my men, I suppose. Osgiliath is not far; we will not stay above a week."

Andrith stood, stretching leisurely, and took his son's hand. "Let's go find your mother, shall we? We'll see what she has to say."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Really, Andrith, I don't think it's wise to allow him to go. When the relationships between Gondor and Rohan are as strained as they are, an attack could happen at any time. It is not safe, and I do not think it right to endanger our son's life."

"Osgiliath is little more at risk than Minas Tirith. They could as easily attack us here as they could there, if indeed they even plan to attack."

His wife frowned. "I know that. But were forces from Rohan to come to Minas Tirith, they would have to pass Osgiliath, and we would receive word from a messenger to prepare for battle at least a day before they arrived. Osgiliath has no such line of defense. And Minas Tirith is a fortress, built to withstand armies of thousands, whereas Osgiliath is not."

"Ailanwë," Andrith said, leaning forward, "he will be safe. I do not believe King Halin of the Riddermark means to attack us anyway, and if he does, he will be under Drían's care." The king could not believe that the same plan he had wanted to reject half an hour ago, he was now arguing in favor of—arguing, what was more, with his wife, with whom he never disagreed if he could avoid it. "Drían would never let anything happen to him."

"You have such complete faith in your brother," Ailanwë said softly, "but you do not trust _me_ half so well when I tell you I have a foreboding feeling whenever he is near. Something in my soul tells me that to trust him would be fatal. I do not wish to speak ill of any of your family, Andrith, least of all someone whom you so love, but my heart cannot remain silent on this subject, not when you want to put Andrin's life into Drían's hands."

"I do not understand why you so dislike—"

"You do not see the gleam in his eye when he looks at your son," his wife interrupted quietly. "Simply by being born, Andrin took away Drían's claim to the throne, and your brother hates him for that. You are blind to his insatiable lust for kingship. He_ wants your place, _Andrith. He will not rest until that crown sits upon his head."

The king knew now why he so wanted his son to go to Osgiliath with Drían; it was a way to show Ailanwë that his brother was not what she believed him to be. "Even if he wanted the throne," he retorted angrily, rising and starting to pace, "he would have to kill both me and Andrin to get it. He would not be so brash. But it is of little consequence, as he has never wanted to be king of Gondor anyway and thus poses no threat."

He quailed slightly under his wife's piercing gaze—the queen was the only person alive who could frighten him—but he was determined to hold his ground. "Andrin will go to Osgiliath with Drían and Belín. That is my final word, Ailanwë."


	2. Part I: Chapter 2

A/N: To give you a time frame for this story, I planned it so that Andrin is Aragorn's great-grandson and Eldarion's grandson—so the line goes Aragorn → Eldarion → Andrith → Andrin. So yes, this is after the War of the Ring. Another thing to note: my descriptions of both Minas Tirith and Osgiliath are coming from how they were depicted in the movies, not in the books (mostly because I don't have the books with me, and partly because I'd be too lazy to find the descriptions anyway). I'm also using a map of Osgiliath that I found online using a Google Search to construct the city in my mind so that I (hopefully) don't screw too much up. 

Chapter 2

Andrin bounced up and down in the stirrups, which had been raised to accommodate his short legs. His cousin rode next to him, looking exhausted but unwilling to close his eyes—they would be coming up on Osgiliath soon, and he didn't want to miss the first glimpse. They were both sore from their two-day ride, but neither was willing to admit it; both had begun the journey by boasting what excellent horsemen they were.

Drían rode at the head of his men, twenty veteran soldiers who usually guarded the lowest level of Minas Tirith, and his son and nephew stayed in the middle of their ranks, where they would be shielded from any unexpected attacks. Andrin and Belín were not very satisfied with this arrangement; they had wanted to go with the two men had been sent to scout out the area ahead, a proposal that Drían very firmly refused.

"I promised your father I wouldn't allow any harm to come to you," he had told Andrin sternly, "and I _am _your father," he added to his son, to which Belín had responded by setting his face into a miserable pout, one that made Drían smile but not relent.

The sound of hooves was approaching along the road from the opposite direction, and a moment later, Drían's scout came into view. "Osgiliath is but a half a league ahead, over the crest of this hill, captain," he said, turning his horse around to join the company. "The garrison is ready to receive you."

Drían nodded curtly and spurred his horse into a trot. "Let us move faster, then, so that we can reach it before nightfall."

Ten minutes later, they crested the hill, and Andrin and Belín got their first glimpse of Osgiliath, Citadel of the Stars. The river than ran through it, the great Anduin, sparkled in the brilliant sunset, giving the entire city an aura of gleaming gold. Andrin could barely make out a stretch of the bridge that connected the two sides of the city across the mighty river. The walls around the city were tall, and they jutted out into the water, creating small eddying currents around the banks. Several tall towers pierced the darkening sky, standing like sentinels over the smaller buildings.

"It's magnificent," said Andrin in a hushed voice.

"It was once the chief city of all Gondor," the soldier next to him said, grinning at the boy's expression of awe. "Isildur and Anárion founded it, and they ruled side by side there. It was far more glorious at its height."

"What happened?" Belín asked, furrowing his brow. "Why isn't it the chief city anymore?"

"It fell into ruin. During the Kin-Strife, its _palantír_ was lost to the river and never recovered, and then the Great Plague hit. Much of it was deserted, and the king moved his throne to Minas Tirith. Osgiliath was once destroyed, you know, during the War of the Ring, but it has since been rebuilt. Faramir, son of Denethor, the first Prince of Ithilien, made a stand here during the War of the Ring, but he was driven back."

"His father, the Steward of Gondor, sent him," Belín interjected eagerly. This was one of the few stories he had listened to with rapture from his tutors. "Even though it was hopeless because the Dark Forces far outweighed his own. He made a final stand, then ordered his troops to retreat, but he stayed behind with the rearguard, and he was badly injured."

Andrin, enthralled, gasped. "What happened to him?"

"Denethor was mad," Belín said gravely. "He tried to burn Faramir alive, but the wizard saved him."

"Aye," the soldier nodded, "and the _palantír_ Denethor was holding can no longer be used but by men of great power and ability."

Andrin turned his attention back to Osgiliath, which was drawing nearer by the second. Within ten minutes, they had reached the wall.

Drían stopped his horse thirty yards from the immense oak gates, which were fortified with tempered iron. The soldier beside him hoisted a flag of Gondor and shouted, "Captain Drían, son of Eldarion!"

There was a minute-long pause, in which all that could be heard was the restless shuffle of the horses' hooves. Then, with a loud, straining groan, the portcullis started to ascend and the gates swung wide.

Andrin could only stare as his horse clopped forward into the streets of Osgiliath. He had lived in Minas Tirith all his life, and Osgiliath looked nothing like it. The buildings were not carved into the mountain face; they stood upon the ground, independent of one another. There were streets and alleyways, far more than Andrin had ever seen. He had thought the only trees that grew in cities were ones like the tree of Gondor that stood on the Tower of Ecthelion but here in Osgiliath there were trees everywhere. When they came to the river, Drían led them to a great bridge that spanned its width, with a tower in the middle.

"That is where we shall stay tonight," the soldier beside Andrin said, pointing to the tower. "Rond Giliath, a replication of the tower where once the _palantír_ rested, before it was destroyed during the Kin-Strife."

"Aye," said Drían, unexpectedly joining in the conversation as he fell back among his men. "And for three days, I will inspect the garrison here."

"Can we come with you, father?" Belín asked eagerly.

"Yes, Uncle," Andrin said excitedly, "may we?"

"Absolutely not," he said gruffly. "The last thing I need is the two of you banging around on my tail. I will set a pair of soldiers to keep watch over you, and you may go where you please."

This announcement was even more welcome than an acceptance of their proposal would have been. They dismounted from their horses in front of Rond Giliath, where Drían ordered two of the soldiers to take them to a room and keep watch over them for the next three days.

"Stay in the tower tonight," he said firmly as he turned, his hand on his sword, to face the rest of his men. "There will be plenty of time tomorrow to go gallivanting about the city."

They were disappointed, but Drían had already turned his attention away from them, and they didn't get a chance to argue.

"Come," said one of the soldiers who had been appointed to keep an eye on them. "Let's find you a room that will suit your needs, shall we?"

The other one led the way inside. "The captain says that there are quarters on the third level, and that they could have a room there," he said, striding into an enormous hall whose ceiling stretched thirty feet overhead. He made his way towards a staircase that wrapped up in a spiral around the inside of the circular room. Andrin and Belín followed, rather put out that they weren't allowed out of the tower tonight.

"It's alright," one of the soldiers said, seeing their crestfallen faces as they mounted the stairs. "My name's Jeride, and this is my friend, Narengil." He pointed to the man ahead of them, leading the way up the stairs. "I'll tell you a story about this place. About Osgiliath, I mean. There was once a king by the name of Valacar, who married a woman of the Northmen of Rhovanion. Many of the Númenórians were opposed to the union—a pollution of blood, they called it, mixing Middle Men and Númenórians."

They had reached a rather large room, which Narengil led the way into, still talking. "When his son, Eldacar, succeeded him to the throne, many Gondorians were unhappy because they saw him as a half-breed unfit to rule the kingdom, so they rebelled. One of Eldacar's distant relatives, Castamir, usurped the throne and forced Eldacar into exile, where he remained until the Gondorians grew dissatisfied with his rule, which gave Eldacar the opening to come back with an army of Northmen, and he got the throne back."

"That's called the Kin-Strife," Belín said sagely as he pulled off his boots and sat on the edge of one of the beds. "It started Gondor's decline."

Jeride laughed. "Someone has been listening to his tutors," he said with a wink. "It lost us the city of Umbar and made enemies out of Castamir's descendants, who call themselves the Corsairs of Umbar. There's a rumor that the ghost of Castimir still haunts these halls," he added with a mischievous grin that said very clearly that he didn't believe in ghosts. He opened the door to leave. "Goodnight, sirs."

Andrin giggled at being called "sir" as the door shut and the soldiers disappeared, presumably to stand guard outside. He yanked off his own boots and tossed them on the floor. "Do you think it's true Castimir is a ghost and that he lives here?" he asked his cousin, yawning as he sank onto the vacant bed.

"No," Belín said boldly. "But I did hear a soldier talking earlier today. He said there was a rebel group that was hiding in the ruins of Minas Morgul, and that they might try to attack Osgiliath."

Andrin let out a low whistle. "I bet my father didn't know about _that_ when he decided to let me come."

Belín grinned. "I don't think even _my_ father knew about it until today. The soldier I overheard had just come from here and was heading to Minas Tirith to tell your father."

They were silent for several minutes, then Andrin said sleepily, "We could take any old rebel who tried to kill us." Two days of riding had worn him out, and his eyelids were drooping.

But Belín didn't answer. Andrin looked over. His cousin was already sound asleep.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The sun was setting on their third day in Osgiliath, and Andrin did not want to go home.

"Let's go see one more thing," he pleaded with the guards as they led him to Rond Giliath. "Just one before we go back."

"Your uncle wanted you in bed by dark," Jeride said firmly. "You have a long day tomorrow."

"It's not out the way," Andrin protested. "I saw it sticking up over there."

He pointed a finger in a southeastern direction, where the tip of some sort of monument jutted up above the houses. The two guards exchanged glances, and Narengil said, "If it's on the way…"

Andrin and Belín grinned and took off down the street towards it. The soldiers, thankful that their task would end with the coming morning, obligingly chased them one last time.

The young prince skidded to a halt in front of an enormous stone obelisk, his cousin right on his heels. They craned their necks toward the top.

"The Obelisk of Atanatar," said Jeride as he and Narengil arrived, breathing hard, behind the two boys. He seemed to know everything about Osgiliath, and he had acted almost as their guide around the city.

Belín was enthralled. The obelisk was made of a black, shiny stone that reflected the setting sun on its western side. At its base was a large stone fountain that had completely dried up save for the water that had collected in the very bottom from the last rainfall.

Andrin pretended to be engrossed in the monument, but he heard the guards talking in low voices behind him.

"I don't like it," Narengil was saying. "It's too open, and it's right between two gates into the city, both of which have very low security. I think we need to leave."

"Relax," Jeride said soothingly, stepping forward and dipping a cupped hand into the water in the fountain. He splashed it at Belín, who stuck out his tongue and splashed him back. "Nothing's going to happen."

Narengil still looked uneasy as the boys chased each other around the obelisk, laughing and giggling madly. Jeride glanced at the sun and made a face. "It's time to go, or Captain Drían will have my hide for getting you to bed late. Andrin! Belín! Come on, lads, it's—"

Jeride never got a chance to finish his sentence. There was a thud, and he halted abruptly, looking in shock down at his chest, from which a thick bolt from a crossbow suddenly protruded. It had gone right through his breastplate, unhindered by the thick, heavy metal. His lips worked as though he was trying to say something, but the only thing that came out was a trickle of blood. He sank to his knees and toppled forward onto the ground.

Narengil had sprung forward, sword in hand, but a second bolt took him through the gut. He let out a spluttering cough, and his sword fell from his suddenly limp hand, and he fell on top of it. Andrin let out a frightened yell, and Belín cowered behind his cousin as several brown-hooded figures with crossbows emerged from the shadows around the opening in which the obelisk was centered. Belín's eyes were riveted in terror on the nearest man approaching him, but Andrin could only stare in horror at the still form of Jeride, lying feet from him, his eyes still wide open, looking as though he couldn't believe he was dead.

"Which one is the prince?" asked a rough voice. The hooded figures had gathered in a circle around them. There were nine, each carrying a crossbow and a sword.

"The light-haired one," said another.

Andrin whimpered as someone grasped his shoulder. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind his back and bound them tightly with strong cords. Belín had started to cry in fear, cowering against the rim of the fountain.

"Take the boy through the Gate of Tulkas Victor. Kill the other one."

Belín let out a scream and tried to break free of the ring of men, but to no avail. He was sobbing, "Let me out, I didn't do anything, don't kill me!"

"Stab him and get it over with," one of the men snarled, throwing Belín from him and sending him sprawling to the ground in the middle of the circle of men.

"No," said a commanding voice.

A man had stepped forward, one wearing a green hood rather than a brown hood. He had an authoritative air about him as he advanced, one that suggested that he was the leader. "He's but a boy; it would be wrong to kill him. Bind him, gag him, and put a hood over his eyes and leave him here for them to find when they get frantic about the young prince's whereabouts."

The man turned to Andrin now. "And you," he said quietly, lifting up a long and nasty-looking knife, "will be quiet, unless you want your entrails sliced out. We won't usually kill a child, but if the option is between that and getting killed ourselves, we'll pick the former. Do you understand?"

Andrin nodded, terrified. He could feel his heart pounding. _Father was right, _he thought miserably. _I shouldn't have come. Now I might die, and I'll probably never see my family again. _He didn't understand why they would kidnap him, but he was afraid that if he asked, they would carry through with their threat and cut out his innards, so he kept his mouth shut. Someone yanked a black hood over his head, and everything went black.


	3. Part I: Chapter 3

Ta-dum! Another chapter. This might be the last one for a while because we just moved. It's not that I'm particularly busy or anything, it's just that my summary for this story is written on paper that's packed away in a box somewhere, a box that I might not see for a month or two, or at least until we find a house. So bear with me and don't hate me because I take a long time between this chapter and the next one. 

One more thing: I've drawn up a timeline, and to give you a better reference, this story (or the beginning of it, at least) takes place in F.A. 401. Hope that helps.

Chapter 3

King Andrith stared out the window at the rising sun, his face calmly pensive, but a conflict raging in his mind. He had never been one to ignore the advice of a friend, let alone his brother, but he could not see the sense in Drían's counsel: that Gondor must go to war.

_No,_ he thought fiercely. _Halin will not attack. He will hold to the Oath of Eorl. It all arose from a misunderstanding anyway. _

Halin, great-great-grandson of Éomer Éadig, was the current Lord of the Riddermark, and he was far more rational than his father, Lohir, had been. Lohir, in the latter years of his reign, had grown suspicious of everything around him; servants, councilors—even his own family had been half-estranged by his fear of treason and attack. He had built up an army of Rohirrim as a precaution against an assault from Gondor. A false rumor had reached him in the last few days before his death that Andrith was preparing to march against Rohan, and a combination of this news and his paranoia had driven him to insanity. He fell mortally ill and died not three days later, proclaiming with his final breath that he had known all along that Andrith had been a traitor. Halin had then been crowned king, unsure of the rumor's credibility but with a wary eye on Gondor nonetheless. For twenty years, neither kingdom had broken the Oath of Eorl, a promise of peace sworn between their forefathers, King Elessar and King Éomer. Andrith did not see what cause Halin might have to attack, but Drían seemed sure that he would, and the king could not bring himself to dismiss his brother's advice as rubbish.

He was stirred from his reverie by a sharp knock. He blinked, sat up straighter, and turned to face the door. "Come in."

A lean man of middle-height entered quietly and bowed to the king. Andrith smiled warmly. It was his captain of the guard, leader of all the soldiers in Minas Tirith. "Rendeg, your coming is welcome. I have something I need to discuss with you."

"In due time, your majesty, but first there is something that demands your attention. A messenger has just arrived from Osgiliath, bearing a letter from your brother. He rode all yesterday and all last night; apparently Captain Drían says it's urgent."

Curious and rather apprehensive, the king accepted the tightly-furled scroll from Rendeg, breaking the seal without delay. It looked as though it had been scrawled in a hurry, and the ink was smudged as though Drían had not waited for it to dry before rolling it up. He forced himself to start from the beginning.

_Andrith,_

_To spare you the agony of suspense, I will proceed directly to the point: your son has been kidnapped. Some of the Gadiantons who have hidden in Minas Morgul entered Osgiliath yestereve at sundown. They slew the guards posted at the Gate of Tulkas Victor and somehow tracked down Andrin, Belín, and the soldiers who were with them. We knew nothing of this until the boys and their guards did not arrive at Rond Giliath at the designated time and we began a search for them. At the Obelisk of Atanatar, we found Belín and the bodies of the appointed guards. Belín was bound and gagged, but Andrin was nowhere in sight. Belín told us that about ten men garbed in brown cloaks and hoods took him northeast, towards Minas Morgul. I pause only long enough to write you this letter and to gather about me all the soldiers I can before I march for the Dead City in pursuit of the Gadiantons, and I beg for your aid. I do not know their number, but the more power we have behind us, the easier it will be to get Andrin out alive. Godspeed, my brother._

_Drían_

Andrith was aware of his heart pounding violently in his chest, of his breath coming rapidly, of his hands shaking uncontrollably as the letter fell to the floor. He had entered battles without a tremor of fear, stood firm against an entire council of advisors without so much as a hint of anxiety, but he could not face this.

His son was in danger.

"Sire?" Rendeg sounded nervous. "What has gone wrong?"

His frantic mind drove his body into action. "Rendeg," he said sharply, rising from his chair and striding out of the room, "I need you to rally every soldier in Minas Tirith and surrounding lands that can be found within two hours. On the third, we march for Osgiliath without stopping."

"Sire, may I ask—"

"Do not question me," Andrith snapped in a harsher tone than he could ever remember using. "Every soldier, Rendeg."

"I—yes, your majesty."

They came to the end of the corridor. Rendeg turned to go the opposite way the king was going. Andrith paused momentarily. "Rendeg?"

The captain halted. "Sire?"

"Where is the queen?"

Andrith knew that this would be the hardest part of the next few days, even with the prospect of having to rescue his son from the Gadiantons looming ahead. He was not looking forward to it, but he knew it had to be done. He had to tell Andrin's mother—his wife.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Ailanwë looked up from the tapestry she was embroidering while talking quietly with Endrai, Drían's wife. She smiled when she saw Andrith. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

The look in his eyes must have told her that something was wrong because the smile slipped sideways off her face as he knelt before her and took her slender hands in his own. "Ailanwë," he whispered, feeling his throat constrict as he looked into her gentle brown eyes and remembered whom it was who had insisted upon Andrin going to Osgiliath. "Ailanwë, we need to speak."

Endrai sensed the tension and fear in Andrith's voice, and she did not smile as she said, "Stay here. I'll leave and let you talk alone." She stood and swept out of the room, throwing a curious glance over her shoulder as she left.

Andrith turned his attention back to the queen. Her eyes were full of alarm, and Andrith knew that her worst fears were about to be realized. He kissed her hand softly, remaining on his knees. "It's Andrin."

She flinched, but she did not draw away. "What's happened?" she asked quietly, with more calm in her voice than Andrith felt himself.

"He… he's been captured."

She inhaled sharply, and tears began to fall from her eyes into her lap. "Oh, Andrith…"

She slid off of her chair and into his arms, sobbing gently. He held her close, fighting back his own tears as he muttered condolences that he wished he believed in himself. "It's alright, love, everything will be fine. We'll get him back, I promise. Drían's gone from Osgiliath to Minas Morgul—"

This name evoked a more violent sob. "Minas Morgul? He was kidnapped by the Gadiantons?"

"Yes, but Drían's marching up there with all the troops he could gather from Osgiliath, and in three hours, I'm leaving as well to go try to get him back."

"Will I lose you as well, then?" she whispered into his chest. "What if you never come back? I would die if anything happened to you and Andrin."

He kissed her tenderly. "Don't say that, love." He took her head between his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs, and looked her in the eyes. "It is true; I may never return. But whatever happens, I will always love you. I promise."

She shuddered, burying her face in his chest again. "I cannot bear to think what poor Andrin must be going through. He's bound to be terrified, and what if they've hurt him? Oh, Andrith…"

"Hush," he said softly. "It does no good to fret. I will bring him home safe."

He stood, pulling his wife up with him and helping her to sit back in her chair. "I love you, Ailanwë. Remember that."

With one final look at his wife, he left the room to gear up for battle.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Drían gazed out over the hundred and fifty troops he had mustered from Osgiliath, gathered at the foot of the mountain. Above them lay the seldom-trod path to Minas Morgul, the Dead City, resting high in the mountains. Faramir, the first Prince of Ithilien in the Fourth Age, had declared it unclean and ordered that it was never to be inhabited again, and it had remained deserted until just over a century previously. The rebels who lived there now had been originally led by a man named Gadianton, who had died nearly thirty years ago. He and a group of followers had been furious when Andrith had chosen Ailanwë as his queen; she was a commoner with whom the king had fallen in love shortly after his coronation. Gadianton was angry that the House of Telcontar had been polluted by "common blood," and he, along with any who would follow, had gone to Minas Morgul and named themselves the Gadiantons. They had been quiet enough throughout the last century, launching an occasional attack on Osgiliath, but never were they well-planned enough to do any major damage.

Drían allowed himself a silent congratulation on how well it had all worked out thus far. He had sent a message, along with a small fortune's worth of gold, to the current leader of the Gadiantons, and his instructions had been followed exactly. Andrin had been taken captive, but Belín had not been harmed, and no one had noticed until the boys and their guards hadn't shown up by dark. Nobody suspected that he, Drían, brother of the king, had planned the abduction.

They had assembled most of the troops in Osgiliath and marched that very night to the foot of the mountains, where Drían allowed the soldiers to rest and wait out the day, until Andrith came with reinforcements.

He was sure Andrith would come; he knew his brother all too well. Unless he was very much mistaken, the king would come without resting or stopping in Osgiliath, and he would arrive by the next morning if he was not otherwise delayed.

Drían knew the next stage of his carefully calculated plan would be the most vital. Both Andrith and his son had to die, but both had to look like accidents, and none of the soldiers could know that it was his fault.

He forced his mind away from that moment. _It will come when it will come,_ he thought grimly,_ and nothing will stop me._


	4. Part I: Chapter 4

A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long. I was reunited with my summary a week and a half ago, but we haven't had internet access until now, and then I had to have my friend edit it. Thank you for sticking with it, anyway. This chapter was hard to write, and I don't think I'm very good at doing battle scenes, but… well, bear with me. Flames without profanity are accepted, reviews are highly appreciated, and constructive criticism is stood up on a pedestal and worshiped.

Chapter 4 

"They're here!"

"It's the king!"

"How many men has he brought?"

"The king!"

"QUIET!" Drían roared, and his soldiers fell silent, gazing at the dark road that stretched towards Osgiliath. They could make out a long line of horses against the black landscape, moving steadily towards them. Whispers broke out among the soldiers, and Drían did not bother to hush them this time. The eastern sky was grayish-pink, heralding the coming dawn; they would allow Andrith's exhausted soldiers a few hours rest, and when the sun began westering, they would march for Minas Morgul.

The first chestnut stallion that trotted up was lathered in sweat, breathing hard and looking as though it were about to collapse from fatigue. The king slid off its back, swept off his helmet, and began directing his soldiers towards a green field at the foot of the mountain, where they would be allowed a morning of much-needed sleep. Andrith did not turn to face Drían until his last soldier—number two hundred and seventy-three—had passed. He pushed aside the dark hair that sweat had plastered against his forehead, strode towards Drían, and—

_THUD._

Drían staggered back under the force of the blow, completely stunned. Andrith's fist had caught the left side of his jaw, and he tasted the coppery flavor of blood as his hand flew to his mouth. He raised his right arm to block a swing from the other side, but realized too late that the fist was just a distraction; his brother's knee came up at the same time and sank into his stomach. He doubled over, feeling his knees hit the rocky ground, fighting for breath.

"You promised me," Andrith growled, seizing the front of Drían's tunic and bending down so that their faces were mere inches apart. "You promised me that you would protect my son."

The shock was as great as the pain; if there was one man in the world who had never lost his temper, it was his brother. He gasped, finally managing to draw a breath. "Andrith, I know, I should've kept a sharper eye on him—I'm sorry—"

But the king was stumbling away, gazing at his hands as though appalled at what he had just done. He sank slowly to his knees, his armor clanking dully as his chest heaved and his face contorted with self-loathing. His mouth opened and closed several times as though he were unable to speak before he finally whispered, "I—Drían, I'm sorry… I don't know what… I can't—I don't—I lost my temper." He looked utterly miserable, and he swallowed hard as though fighting back tears. "Can you forgive me?"

Drían nodded stiffly, massaging his jaw. He had to work hard to keep the rage that was boiling inside him from showing on his face. What right did Andrith have to hit him, to humiliate him in front of his own soldiers? He could feel their eyes on his back, and the hatred within him threatened to explode. Thrusting his hands deep in his pockets to prevent them seizing his sword, he stalked off towards his tent, grateful that the king had turned away to face the rising sun.

His only consolation was that by this time tomorrow night, both his brother and his nephew would be out of the way. All was going according to plan—he had even managed to make Belín stay safely out of the way in Osgiliath, even though his son had been unhappy about it. _Just one more day,_ he told himself as he pushed aside the flap into his tent. _One more day._

Andrith stared broodingly into the sunrise, knowing that the golden glow was touching his face and slowly spreading over his body. He could see the light, but he felt no warmth; all within him was cold, as though a dark, deathly chill had swept into his heart, and no amount of sunshine could banish it.

For the king of Gondor, the day could not have gone any slower. His soldiers were sprawled out in the field at the mountain's foot, sound asleep after their long ride, and Andrith knew that he should do the same. His feet, however, carried him back and forth beside the blackened remains of a fire from the previous night, pacing anxiously up and down. His mind roamed wildly, and though he tried to force his mind away from Andrin, it kept straying back to what his son must be enduring. Twice, he nearly called the soldiers into action because he could not bear to wait a second longer, but he forced himself to take a few deep breaths and let them continue to sleep. It was not fair of him to decrease their chances of survival in battle because he was not patient enough to allow them sufficient rest.

What seemed like ages later, the sun finally began to set.

With swift efficiency, the captains organized their soldiers and made ready to march. Drían caught his eye and signaled that they were ready, and Andrith mounted his horse.

"Soldiers!" he shouted, riding out in front of them and pulling his horse to a halt. "Men of Gondor! You ride towards battle with the Gadiantons to rescue your future king. You are prepared to fight, to suffer, even, perhaps, to die at their hands."

He paused, unsheathing his sword and holding it firmly in his right hand. "But I will not force this of anyone who does not do it willingly. You have families—wives and children—and your duty to them is as serious as your duty to your king. If you so choose, you may turn back. But as for the rest of us!" He thrust his sword into the air to the cheers of his soldiers. "As for the rest of us, we will fight, and we will be victorious! We ride!"

He slid his sword back into its sheath, turned his horse to face the canyon that led to Minas Morgul, and dug his heels into the sides of the stallion. With a roar of approval, the men behind him spurred their own mounts behind him, ready to follow him to the death.

None turned back.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The cell was dark and dank, the only light coming from a flickering torch that burned far down the corridor outside. There was moss spreading across the ceiling, and the stone walls were covered in thick green lichen. The heavy metal door, locked with a sturdy crossbar, bore signs of wear and rust, but it held as firmly as ever.

Huddled in the corner of the cell, cold, hungry, terrified, and thoroughly miserable, sat Andrin. Tears had cut two thin lines through the dirt on his face, and his dark hair was a tangled mess. His thin tunic, designed for summers in Minas Tirith, provided little protection in the cold mountains of Minas Morgul, and they had given him no food and precious little water.

_They._ His captors, the Gadiantons. He had heard them mention that name, and a brief memory of a history lesson about rebel groups had flared within him. Without removing the hood they had yanked over his head, they had placed him on a horse in front of a large man and ridden for what had seemed like hours, the cold growing with each step. When the cloth had finally fallen from his eyes, Andrin had found himself passing under the gates of a blackened city that had fallen into ruin. It stank of mold and rust and decay, and it seemed that, even centuries after it had been in malevolent hands, something evil and dark still lurked here, haunting the few inhabitants of the fallen city. The young prince had shuddered at the a small number of people he saw, staring at him with hollow, sunken eyes and gaunt faces and looking more dead than alive.

With his first glimpse at the men, women, and children who lived in Minas Morgul—the descendents of the original rebels—had come the first real thrill of terror. This was not, he suddenly realized, one of his imagined adventures, one in which he would wrench away his captor's sword and free himself by fighting his way through an entire city of enemies to emerge on the other side, victorious and unscathed. Here in the clutches of rebellious men whose intentions he could not fathom, he was completely subject to their mercy.

_Be strong, _he told himself. _Father would want you to be strong._ With this thought, however, the image of his father's face swam into his mind, and the tears he had worked so hard to stop began to fall again. He thought miserably of his parents and wondered whether they were looking for him, or if his uncle Drían had even told them he had been taken.

"They'll find me," he said aloud, though in a very small voice. He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his forehead on them, starting to sob softly. What would the Gadiantons do to him? What did they want with him? Would he ever see his family—Mother, Father, Uncle Drían, Aunt Endrai, Belín—again? Would he starve to death in this foul dungeon beneath the crumbling gatehouse of the Dead City?

He shuddered as these thoughts passed through his mind, and he rested his head wretchedly against the wall. Trying hard not to think about anything that would frighten him more, he sank into an uneasy sleep.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

For the first time in his life, King Andrith laid eyes on the Dead City of Minas Morgul, and he knew why the first Prince of Ithilien had declared it uninhabitable.

Even from high above in the mountain pass, hidden by the darkness of the moonless night, he could see it festering with evil. It was unnaturally black, as though even the stars shed no light on the dilapidated buildings that were slowly crumbling to dust. He shuddered as the wind swept through the ranks of his soldiers assembled behind him; even the air felt cold, clammy, and dead. Horses shifted nervously, and soldiers had to whisper calming words to keep them from bolting. Centuries of desertion and decay had not dimmed the influence the Servants of Mordor had made on this part of Middle Earth.

The only thing that could have made him go down there was the thought of his son.

_Surprise and numbers are our main weapons,_ he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. _We can get out of this with minimal loss of life if we can retain the element of surprise. _

With a motion over his shoulder to the captains behind him, he spurred his horse forward, towards the Dead City.

The gates loomed ever closer; the silence was unbroken except by the occasional snort of a horse. Even the sound of their hooves was muffled by the soft undergrowth through which they moved. Halting a hundred yards from the gate, still out of site of any sentries that might be standing watch, Andrith held up a hand.

A volley of arrows shot from the bows of his soldiers, and, judging by a harsh scream that sounded through the night, at least one found its mark. Another round was released, and then Andrith led the charge towards the looming wall, crying, "For Gondor!"

Men with torches had appeared on the battlements, pointing at the oncoming rush of soldiers and crying warnings down the wall. Ten archers that had been picked for their ability to shoot from horseback were bringing them down swiftly, but their numbers increased as more swarmed in from the city. A disorganized hail of arrows peppered the king's troops, but the shafts were poorly made, and the few that found their targets usually bounced off the men's armor.

The enormous doors to the city were not hard to breach; centuries of rot and decay had done their work. With well-aimed, simultaneous kicks from two horses, one side swung open and the other crashed to the ground, snapped clean off its heavy metal hinges. The soldiers poured inside to face a group of men that equaled theirs in number, waving swords and ready for battle.

Andrith spurred his stallion forward into the ranks of the Gadiantons, twisting in his saddle to block and return attacks. The musty air rang with the clash of metal upon metal, the screams of dying men, and the whinnies of horses. The king was engaged in a struggle with a man who had leapt up onto a chunk of fallen rock so that they would be on even ground, when he felt his mount heave beneath him. He tried to hold on, but to no avail; the momentum carried him through the air, and he landed heavily nearly ten feet away. His horse had fallen with a spear in the side, and he could hardly breathe—it seemed to him as though he had hit the ground with bone-breaking force, that he had been paralyzed… ten seconds later, however, he managed to roll over with a groan. He seized his sword, dragged himself off the ground, and turned to face a man who was charging towards him. He was about to slide his sword through his opponent's stomach, but he changed his mind; at the last moment, he flipped his blade around so that the man hurled straight into the hilt. Andrith gasped as the sword cut his hands, but he had accomplished what he had intended; the man had doubled over, fighting for breath. The king kicked him in the groin, and he fell to his knees, groaning. When he finally managed to draw breath, the Gadianton found himself staring up the blade of a sword, which was digging into his neck.

"The prisoner," Andrith growled, ignoring the pain coursing through his palms. "The boy prisoner, where is he?"

The man looked paralyzed by fear. Andrith jerked the sword, and his captive whimpered as blood began spreading slowly over his neck. The cut was shallow, not lethal, but it was enough to get him talking.

"There," he croaked, waving a hand towards the gate, "in the dungeon beneath the gatehouse."

Andrith was gone before the man had a chance to draw another breath. Weaving his way through the mêlée of soldiers, ducking wild blows and once having to wrest out an arrow that had pierced his chest plate and nicked his skin, he made his way towards the gates, which were now on fire.

The small door to the gatehouse was locked, but it was no obstacle to Andrith. Adrenalin rushing, he slammed into it with his shoulder, and the rotting wood cracked in two under the force of the blow. He stumbled into the dark room, ignoring the man cowering under a table in the corner, and dashed towards a door in the opposite wall, one that opened into a descending staircase. Taking the crumbling stone steps two at a time, he found himself facing a row of prison doors. His son was in here somewhere—he had to be.

"Andrin," he called.

For one agonizing, heart-stopping moment, there was no answer, and then—

"Father!"

The little voice was strained and filled with tears, but the overwhelming emotion was relief. That same flooding feeling was coursing through the king's veins as he strode quickly towards the source of the reply, the door at the very end of the row of cells. He knocked aside the crossbar that held it in place, wrenched the rusty door out of its frame, and knelt to receive his son as he rocketed into his arms.

He felt such utter relief flooding through him that he laughed out loud as he buried his face in Andrin's hair, holding him close. The boy was sobbing into his father's tunic, clinging on as though he would never let go.

"I knew you would find me," he whispered.

"I would never have forgiven myself if I hadn't."

There were a few more seconds of silence, broken only by Andrin's muffled crying, before Andrith said gently, "It's time to get out of here, son. Come on."

Taking his hand, he led the way up the stairs, through the upper room of the gatehouse, and back into the battle. Drawing his sword, he parried a blow from a passing Gadianton, pulled Andrin closer to him, and bellowed, "Retreat! Get out of here! RETREAT!"

His soldiers started to draw back, the call for a retreat echoing through the mêlée. The Gadiantons looked relieved as many of the soldiers disengaged; the rebels were losing badly, and Andrith considered pressing the attack until they were eliminated, but their objective had been accomplished. Andrin was back in his arms, and the Gadiantons could be dealt with later.

They were nearly to the gate when it happened. Andrith felt an exploding pain in his stomach, and he halted, looking down to see the hilt of a Gadianton's dagger protruding from his armor. Andrin screamed, clutching at his father's arm and gazing in horror as the king's hand found the hilt and wrenched it out. The battle raged around him, the king's soldiers drawing back more and more every second.

A soldier had noticed Andrith's gasps of pain, and he let out a cry, rushing to help him as he collapsed to the ground. He felt his blood pounding through his body, and through a haze of pain, he saw Drían appear over him, concern and determination etched into his face.

"The prince," Andrith gasped as the soldier tried to help him to his feet so they could get out of hostile territory, "get my son out of here. Now!"

The soldier glanced at Drían, who nodded and said, "I'll help him." As Drían knelt low over his brother, quickly dispatching a Gadianton who had flung himself at him, the soldier lifted the sobbing prince into his arms and fled through the gates.

Andrith could feel his consciousness slipping away. The wound was not fatal; he would recover, if the bleeding was stopped… they just had to get out of here, away to somewhere they could rest and patch up their wounded…

But Drían wasn't helping him up. One of his brother's hands was tearing away the bloody stomach armor that covered the wound, and the other was coming away from his belt. In his clenched fist he held a long dagger of Gadianton make. His face was set with loathing, fear, and determination, as though he were steeling himself for something he was about to do.

As Andrith watched the dagger sink into his stomach, it all became suddenly, horribly, terribly clear. His limbs were on fire, but they wouldn't move. His vision was blurring, and he spluttered and tasted blood. There was a sort of grim satisfaction in his brother's face as he drove the dagger deeper, and a choked scream wrenched itself from Andrith's throat. There was no one there to pay him heed, no one to see that his brother had just betrayed him; his soldiers were almost out the gate, and Drían was calling to them frantically, telling them that their king was dying.

Unbidden, an ancient song sprang into his mind, one that his father had taught him, and his father before him, one that, he realized with a jolt, he would never teach to his own son.

What can you see 

_On the horizon?_

_Why do the white gulls call?_

The wounds in his stomach were gushing blood, but he felt no more pain.

Across the sea 

_A pale moon rises_

_The ships have come to carry you home…_

The color was draining out of his world, and he knew that the end was near.

And all will turn 

_To silver glass_

_A light on the water…_

His vision blurred…

_Gray ships pass _

_Into the west._

And so it was that Andrith, son of Eldarion, King of Gondor, breathed his last.


	5. Part I: Chapter 5

HaHA! Here it is! Sorry it took so long. I hit a bout of writers' block, and then I forgot about it for a while, and then school started… anyway, thanks for bearing with me (at least, I hope you're bearing with me). Well, I present to you Chapter Five in _Son of Kings! _Enjoy (and review)!!

Chapter 5

"Calm down, lad, wait a bit!"

"Lemme go! I want my father! Don't take me—"

"Your majesty—"

"I said, let me GO!"

"Andrin, stop it!"

Breathing hard and glaring at the man who had a firm grip on his elbows, Andrin stopped struggling. Rendeg, captain of the guard, looked him sternly in the eyes and said, "Your father told my soldier to get you out of the city, and he did as he was told—_on your father's orders._ If you go back now, you're disobeying him. If you have any respect for him, you'll stay where you are."

With a rebellious glance at the path that led up to Minas Morgul, Andrin sank sullenly to the ground. "I want to go to meet him."

"He'll be here shortly, lad. He wasn't far behind us."

"But he was hurt," Andrin retorted, glowering at Rendeg. "It'll take them longer because of that."

"My soldier said that the wound was little more than a cut. A journey on horseback won't be too strenuous for him."

Andrin hunched his shoulders against the cold morning that was just beginning to dawn. Rendeg took off his cloak and slung it across the young prince's back. "Your father will come," he said softly, and then he turned and walked away.

Andrin could not help but relive, again and again, what had happened. The Gadianton throwing the dagger, the blade thudding through the metal of the armor, his father's shaking hand wrenching it out, his order to the soldier to remove his son from the city, kicking and shouting as he was dragged away, his last glimpse of his father as Drían bent over him…

"He'll be alright," Andrin told himself in a whisper. He drew Rendeg's cloak closer around him, grateful of the thick cloth that turned away the cold.

Most of the army had come ahead with the soldier who took Andrin, setting up camp when they arrived at the foot of the canyon. They had placed the prince directly in the middle of the ring of tents, next to the fire, where he was constantly surrounded by soldiers. They all settled down to wait for the remainder of the men to arrive.

It took a full hour before they saw the first horses crest the ridge, solemn soldiers perched on top. Andrin leapt up, forgetting the bowl of stew that had been provided him moments before, and dashed towards the sloping path to meet them. He was caught at the edge of the ring of tents, however, by Rendeg, who threw an arm across the prince's chest to hold him back, a strange look on his face. A mutter swept the camp as the men approached, grim and quiet. No shouts of victory, no gleeful yells… only stoic silence. Andrin fought against the captain's grip, but to no avail; he called for his father, but no answer came.

"Something's wrong," a soldier near them whispered as they watched the line of silent soldiers grow nearer. "Where's the king?"

The men were dismounting, leading their horses through the camp to the meadow. Most gazed determinedly at the ground, and the few who looked up would not meet Andrin's eyes. A feeling of foreboding had welled up inside the young prince, and he broke free of Rendeg and rushed to a white mare, upon which Drían rode, silent and unsmiling.

"Uncle, where—"

But Andrin stopped short. Between four horses that rode in close formation were stretched four ropes that met at the middle, bound to an improvised stretcher. A blanket was lashed between two heavy boughs and fortified with lengths of rope, and on it—

Andrin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. His heart waited an eternity between each beat; his breath did not seem to want to come. His hands shook, and he felt a strangled, wrenching sob tear out of his throat. "Father," he mouthed, but no sound came. He reached out to touch the still form, but he recoiled at the last second, not wanting to feel the cold, clammy skin that, mere hours ago, had been so warm.

His father's face was tranquil and serene even in death. His hands rested on his chest, clasped over the hilt of his sword, which had been wiped clean of blood. He could have been sleeping but for the utter stillness of his body—his chest did not rise and fall with breath, his hands did not twitch, his eyes remained shut.

Andrin felt strong arms lifting him, drawing him away from his father's body, and he looked up to see Rendeg, tears coursing openly down his weathered face. He drew Andrin close to his chest as he carried him towards a tent, and the prince tried to pretend that the muscular arms that held him belonged to his father, but it did not work. No amount of pretending would change the fact that the king's lifeless body lay behind him, borne between somber.

He was dimly aware of Rendeg laying him gently on a mat and pulling a blanket over him. There were people moving around him, but he hardly noticed them; all he could think about was the empty hole in his heart where his father had always been.

His eyes had been dry until now, but he suddenly felt an overpowering wave of tears welling up in his throat. It started quietly, silent tears slipping down his face, and built in momentum until his whole body was wracked with sobs. He curled up on the mat, burying his head in the pillow. He'd had his father back for a few brief moments, and then it had all been snatched from him once more. Nothing was right now, nor would it be again, and the peaceful life he had led in Minas Tirith until a week ago seemed like a past that belong to someone else, one that was in no way connected to him.

What seemed like an eternity later, he slipped into a fitful slumber.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Rendeg stood silently, his arms folded, gazing down broodingly at the small form curled on the mat. The young prince shifted uneasily in his sleep, shivering even with the warmth of thick wool blanket on top of him. The captain of the guard knew that there was nothing he could do to ease the grief, but he wanted to reach out and cradle the boy in his arms, sooth him, tell him that everything would turn out alright.

"Captain?"

Rendeg turned. In the door of the tent stood Captain Drían, the king's brother. One hand was clenched over the hilt of the sword that hung at his waist; the other was shaking slightly. Rendeg tried to read the unfathomable emotion in those dark eyes as he inclined his head in a solemn gesture of mourning. Fighting down the lump in his throat, he asked hoarsely, "How did it happen?"

With a long breath, Drían began pacing back and forth. He was silent for a moment before he spoke in a subdued voice. "The first dagger wound was not fatal. He was blacking out, but it was from pain and loss of blood—he would have survived had we gotten him out in time. The only soldier who had noticed took the prince and left on Andrith's orders. I turned around to find someone to help me get him out of the Dead City, and while my back was turned, a Gadianton plunged this into his stomach."

From his belt he had drawn a long, crude dagger that was obviously of Gadianton make. It trembled in his pale hand, and he turned away as he swallowed hard, his face etched with grief. Rendeg approached him gravely and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. "The people will mourn his passing, but none more than his family. I'm sorry, captain."

"Where is the prince?"

Rendeg glanced over his shoulder at the form asleep on the mat, and Drían, following his gaze, moved towards the boy and knelt beside him. He laid his hand momentarily on his nephew's forehead, and then he stood. "Have you any idea why the Gadiantons kidnapped him in the first place?"

The captain of the guard let out a long breath. "I would say that it was to lure the king into a trap, except that they could not have thought that they had enough men to pull that off successfully. Then there's the possibility of ransom, but there were no demands made, even with three days between the prince's disappearance and the night we attacked. Then there's the question of how they even knew he was in Osgiliath, or what he looked like when they arrived to take him." He shook his head gravely. "There must be a spy within our ranks," he said softly, "someone feeding information to the Gadiantons."

Rendeg's mind had deduced this fact directly after the prince's abduction, but his heart had yet to accept it. He did not believe that any one of his men would sink low enough to reveal information that would be fatal to his king. They were not perfect, but they were good, loyal soldiers whose fealty to their sovereign could hardly be doubted.

He watched Drían gazing silently out at the gray streaks of dawn that were beginning to shoot through the sky, and his gaze traveled from the uncle to the nephew. He inhaled sharply when he realized the full percussions of the king's death on his son: Andrin, son of Andrith, was now the fourth king of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor.

_Boys are not meant to be kings, _Rendeg thought bitterly as he watched the new leader of his kingdom toss fitfully in his sleep. _He should not have had to take up this mantle yet. He can no longer be a boy, he has to be a man. His father is not the only part of him that died today; he can never have his childhood back. _

The army put a day between itself and Osgiliath, and another long trek still stretched ahead of them when they settled down for the night. They had not moved nearly as quickly as they had in coming; the soldiers were not particularly eager to return home, not bearing such tidings as they had. Victory seemed a small gain in light of what they had lost.

An unusual quiet oppressed the camp that night. Voices that were usually raised in song and merriment were subdued into grave solemnity. Laughing faces had lapsed into melancholy sorrow, and grief was etched in the countenances of more than a few.

Drían sat beside the fire that blazed inside the ring of captains' tents, the picture of grief and helpless rage. In truth, sorrow was not an emotion he associated with himself; he had known before he ever started planning that he would have to push it all away. Rage, however, was right on the mark. The battle had been intended to kill the kingand the only other claimant to the throne, Andrin, but he had only succeeded in getting rid of one. That had been too risky as it was; he had planned to corner the two alone in the dungeon, kill Andrith before he had time to realize what was happening, and then dispatch his nephew. He had been delayed at precisely the wrong moment, though, by a Gadianton who was particularly adept with a blade, and he had missed his chance. It was a miracle that no one had seen him stab his own brother in the midst of the battle.

He had to think of another means by which to clear his way to the throne.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A score of men sat grouped around a crackling fire, whose merry blaze belied the heavy mood that had settled over them. There were very few whose thoughts were occupied by anything other than what had happened at the culmination of the battle; most found they were unable to push it from their minds.

Their king was dead.

"Captain Drían hasn't spoken a word to anyone all day."

The speaker was a rugged man with a short, bushy beard and small, dark eyes. "I heard Jyd telling someone that the king's death devastated him, maybe even past repair."

"I feel more sorry for the prince," answered another quietly. "His father's dead, poor lad, and suddenly he's got a country to run on top of it."

"He won't run the country," said a third. "Captain Drían is the only other male in the House of Telcontar; he'll act as regent until our new king is old enough to take responsibility for it."

"I don't know if Captain Drían is in the right state to be regent. Like I said… perhaps he'll go mad."

"Aye," quipped another man. "He and the king were very close, I hear tell."

Someone made a hushing noise, and all stopped talking to listen. Footsteps were approaching from the darkness surrounding the fire, and a moment later someone emerged from between the tents.

"Is there one here by the name of Solin?" the newcomer asked, scanning the faces of those grouped around the fire.

A shadow moved just outside of the ring of light. A man, sheathing a dagger he had been sharpening, unfolded himself and moved from the darkness into the flickering glow. "I am he."

He was tall, with long, dark hair, a narrow face, and roving eyes. He carried himself warily, even though no danger threatened, and he seemed to take in everything within his sight. The sword that hung at his side, even now when most men had left their own with their belongings, was thin, light, and of exquisite make. Every muscle that moved spoke of power, agility, and speed.

The messenger looked rather intimidated by the belligerent appearance of the man, but to his credit, his voice only quavered slightly when he spoke.

"Captain Drían requests your presence in his tent immediately. Shall I tell him you're coming?"

"No need," the man named Solin answered, starting off in the direction of the captains' tents. "I'll tell him myself."

Two soldiers were standing at the entrance when he arrived, allowing him to pass only once he had stated his name and business. He pushed aside the canvas tent flap and stepped inside. Captain Drían was pacing restlessly back and forth across the floor. He looked up as Solin entered.

He bowed. "You asked to see me, Captain?"

Drían nodded curtly. "Yes, soldier. Dismiss the guards outside my tent; tell them to help secure the camp's perimeter."

Solin did as he was told, though there was hardly any need to relay the orders; the tent was hardly soundproof, and the guards had heard quite clearly. Returning to face the captain, he waited patiently while Drían paced for a few moments longer. Finally, he paused and looked at his subject.

"I need a task done," he said slowly, "one that requires a very skilled warrior. While looking for one, I was referred to you. Are you as good as they say you are?"

Solin knew flattery when he heard it, but that did not by any means make him immune to it. He felt very gratified that his skills had come to the attention of a commanding officer other than the one that oversaw the faction of troops to which he belonged. Humbly, though, he answered, "I don't know what they say, sir, but I do my best."

Drían let out a hollow laugh. "Don't bother with modesty, soldier, I want the truth."

Solin allowed the shadow of a smile to flit across his features. "Very well, sir. I'm the best you'll find in all of Gondor."

"Then answer me a question. How far does your loyalty to me extend?"

He was slightly surprised by this question, but he answered without hesitation. "I would give my life for you, sir." It was true; in his opinion, if a man would choose his own life over the life of a member of the royal family, then that man's life was not worth living.

Drían contemplated him a moment. "Your life?"

"Every one of them if I had a thousand. Give me an order, sir, and I shall carry it through to the very best of my ability."

Drían let out a long breath. "You deserve to be a captain, sir."

Solin didn't know how to respond. To be addressed as 'sir' by his superior—what was more, by the man who was probably about to become regent of a kingdom—was something he had never prepared himself for. "I—sire, I don't…" he stammered, "I don't know how to thank you for such a compliment. Give me any task, captain, but make it nigh impossible, so that when I complete it, I can feel at least partially worthy of the honor you have shown me."

Drían waved him off. "You're already worthy. I only ask this as a favor."

"Anything," Solin said hoarsely.

"You swear you'll do whatever it is I ask of you? I'll have you made a captain upon our return to Minas Tirith should you succeed."

"My captain, you honor me. I swear, upon every fiber of my being, or let me die by my own hand."

Drían smiled. "That will not be necessary, I'm sure."

"What is it you require of me?"

There was a brief pause.

"I need you to kill the prince."


	6. Part I: Chapter 6

A/N: I've had this done for a few days now, but the internet connection on my lap top decided to go bananas, and I've only just managed to get it fixed. Just a side note: NEVER use AT&T. They're _terrible._ Absolutely appalling service. We're supposed to have wireless that extends with a strong signal to the entire house, but I'm lucky when I can even get a weak one. So take my advice, or I think you'll end up regretting it. Anyway, I present to you: Chapter six of _Son of Kings!_

Chapter 6

Solin felt his breath quicken and his heart start thumping wildly. He had heard wrong, he must have heard wrong, how could he not have heard wrong? Kill the prince? He was committing treason simply by _thinking_ it! It was impossible—why would the prince's own uncle want him dead?

But Captain Drían was still talking, and from what he was saying, it was evident that he had just said exactly what Solin had thought he had said.

"No one can know, obviously." He picked up a knife and began to slide its blade along a whetting stone. "The perimeter guards should be fairly easy to slip past—I intentionally posted them very far apart—and you can get rid of the man on sentry duty at his tent by telling him that you'll relieve him. Take the lad back in the direction of Osgiliath, following the river, and stab him with this."

He held up the long dagger he was holding, and for the first time, Solin recognized its make—it was crude, with a rough bone handle, but its blade was made of iron, its blue tint marking it out as mercilessly strong. That kind of iron could no longer be found anywhere but the mountains surrounding Minas Morgul, and there was only one group that ever ventured there. This dagger was of Gadianton make.

Fingers trembling, Solin reached out to take it. His fingers halted tremulously for a moment, hesitating for the barest breadth of a second, and then they made the final lunge, closing around the bleached bone.

"Good," Drían said curtly. "Am I right, then, in believing I can count on you?"

Dumbly, Solin nodded.

But the captain's sharp eyes had not missed that brief moment of indecision that Solin's fingers had betrayed upon taking the dagger. The soldier saw his eyes flicker up to scrutinize his face. Apparently, Drían decided he needed one final shove to be sure that the task was carried out appropriately.

He turned away, looking as though emotion was starting to get the better of him. Just as Drían had noticed his soldier's hesitation, however, Solin had seen his captain's cunning eyes run a calculating sweep, and to him, it was glaringly obvious that this theatric was just for show.

"It's the prince's health," Drían said hoarsely, his voice strained. "He has a disease, I think, one that affects his mind. Our best healers say that he will not live five years more, and even the elves' attempts at correcting the problem have gone in vain. But there's more." He straightened his shoulders and turned to face Solin, and though he seemed to be fighting back tears, his eyes were entirely dry. "They say that as soon as the disease takes hold in earnest, which cannot be more than a few months away, he will spend the rest of his life in tormented agony that not even the best medicine or magic will relive. He will suffer every moment until he dies."

_Liar,_ Solin thought, but he said nothing.

"Now, with his father gone, he says he would welcome death." He turned away this time on the pretense of hiding his tears, though in reality concealing the fact that there were none. "If you have children, surely you understand—I cannot bear to see my nephew suffer in the way he will. It is… it is for the best that I ask you to kill him. He can have no peace in this life; perhaps he will find it in the next."

Solin waited.

"No man knows what I have just told you," he continued, "save for the healers who have seen him. Keep it quiet—there is no need for his name to be disgraced in death. You may go."

_Kill the prince?_

"Wait," Drían said suddenly, turning back to face Solin. "Wait. I have something to give you."

The soldier halted. Drían reached down the neck of his shirt and withdrew a small, gold amulet with a piece of jade set into the center. Pulling it over his head, he handed it to Solin. "My brother gave this to me before he died, and now I give it to you as a token of my trust, a mark of gratitude for the service you will render… to me and to my nephew. _Now_ you may go."

_Kill the prince?_

_He's not the prince, _Solin thought as he swept out of the tent. _He's the king. I've been asked to murder my king._

And as he realized this, the despair started settling in. What was he to do? He had given Captain Drían his word that he would do whatever was asked of him, but he was not prepared for this, never this. Why would he want the new king dead?

_He wants the crown. Getting Prince—King Andrin out of the way would make sure it passed to him._

He was about to clasp the amulet around his neck, but doing so would mean that he had accepted the task Drían had set before him. Instead, he slipped it into the pack on his back, one that he always carried with him.

_What am I to do?_

_Be rational, _he told himself. _If I refuse, he'll probably have me killed._

_But if I carry out his orders, I kill the king of Gondor._

_How can he ask such a thing of me?_

_I gave my word! A soldier doesn't go back on a promise._

_Neither does a soldier murder his king. _

Solin found himself walking towards the prince's tent.

_What are thinking? _he asked himself furiously. _You're not actually going to do it?_

_What else am I going to do?_

There was one man standing guard outside. When Solin stopped in front of the tent without saying anything, the man coughed expectantly.

Drían will kill you if you don't. He'll have you murdered, or maybe convicted of some heinous crime you didn't commit.

If I refuse, I am condemned.

If I comply, I am damned.

"Captain Drían sent me to relieve you," Solin heard his own voice saying.

"I'm not supposed to be relieved for three more hours," he protested.

Solin shrugged. "That's what he said."

The soldier glanced at the tent, but he sighed resignedly. No one disobeyed orders form Captain Drían, whose authority was second only to Rendeg, and this soldier was no exception. He headed off towards his company's fires.

Silently, Solin pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.

Prince Andrin was sitting on the cot, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He looked so lost and helpless, and Solin's first emotion was outrage that someone had left the poor lad to cope with his grief all on his own. Surely someone should have comforted him, held him like his father would have…

But then he remembered that he, himself was supposed to murder this boy, and all anger at whoever had abandoned him like this evaporated in comparison to hatred of himself.

Just do it man, he said firmly. Steel yourself.

But looking into those red-rimmed eyes, lit by a single candle, full of grief and pain and fear but nowhere, not once, one bit of suspicion or mistrust, he made up his mind.

"Come with me," he ordered hoarsely.

Without questioning him, Andrin slid off the cot and crossed to Solin. The soldier took his hand, looked into his eyes, and said softly, "I don't want you to make a single sound until I tell you that you can."

Silently, the prince nodded.

"Alright. Let's go."

Leading the boy behind him, Solin slipped through the darkness towards the perimeter of the camp.

They got past the guards easily enough, slipping through the trees when they had their backs turned. Andrin followed blindly, not thinking to question the man who led him by the hand. The grief must be overpowering his judgment, Solin thought as he led the prince through the forest. A normal child would hesitate before he let me drag him out of the camp.

The bright moon, almost full, lit their path through the trees. They could have walked for hours or merely for minutes; each was too absorbed in his own thoughts to note the passage of time.

Finally, trekking through the night, they met the mighty Anduin.

Solin pulled the young prince to a halt a hundred feet from the rushing water. He took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"Look at me, lad," he said softly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, even though he new they must be at least a mile away from anybody. When he halted, trying to find an easy way to say the thing he knew he had to, Andrin prompted him.

"What is it?"

You're man; you can do this. Just tell him.

He took a deep breath. "You need to run, sire. Leave Gondor, get out of this place. Go to Rohan, Mirkwood, Rhûn—anywhere but here."

The young boy's eyes widened in shock. "You—you want me to leave?"

"Captain—your—there's…" he searched in vain for the right words. "Someone in this kingdom wants you dead, and he will stop at nothing to make it happen. His power is limitless, absolute—as far as Gondor extends. Outside of Gondor, he is powerless. He will not rest until he knows you are dead, and he will find a way to kill you as long as you are within his reach. So get out. Go to Rohan, find someone to take you in, raise you as a man of the Mark."

"But—but who—" Andrin spluttered, "who would want to kill me?"

Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, Solin would have smiled as the boy's unspoiled innocence. "It doesn't matter," he said quickly. "It is enough that he wants you dead. So you must disappear."

He would have imagined a boy this age would start weeping, crying that he had no place to go, that he had to stay, that surely someone would find this man who wanted him murdered and lock him in prison, but Andrin did not follow his expectations. Instead he straightened his shoulders, glared resolutely down his nose the way he had seen impressive adults do, and said, "Is that all I need to know?"

"Yes," Solin said, inexpressibly glad that he was taking all of this without question. "Wait—no. One more thing: don't tell anyone—anyone, understand?—your real name. Go by… go by Thylian, at least if you end up in Rohan. Thylian, not Andrin, you hear? That name will be your death sentence if you reveal it. Leave it here to die in your place, so that you won't have to."

The prince nodded determinedly, but Solin could see the tears in his eyes. "Yessir. I understand."

"Walk in the river for the first mile so they won't be able to find your tracks. Then get out and follow it—walk as far as you can every day for seven days. Whenever it branches, take the left fork. Then you'll be in Rohan. Here." From his back he slung a pack that he always carried with him, no matter where he was. "This has two loaves of dwarven crâm in it—one bite is plenty to make a meal of when one is hungry. Not very pleasant-tasting, but it will last you three weeks if you use it sparingly. Here's my cloak; use it how you will. Good luck."

He was about to send him on his way, but he paused momentarily, realizing the magnitude of what was happening. He glanced up at the twinkling stars and down at the rushing river and wondered how nature could ever have turned out something so perverted as man could be, and a moment later he dropped to his knees.

"Whatever happens," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water, "to you or to me, I will never forget where my loyalties lie. Perhaps when you are older, the time will come that it is safe for you to return and claim what is rightfully yours. Go now and be safe, my brother—my King."

Nodding because he was unable to speak past the lump in his throat, Andrin pulled the cloak over his shoulders, put the pack on, and scrambled down the bank towards the river.

Solin watched the small figure, struggling in the shallow water near the shore, fighting against the current, until he rounded the bend in the river and was lost to view.

The soldier stood there a moment, pleading silently with any gods that might be listening to spare the boy, wondering what was to become of him—wondering whether he had done the right thing. Perhaps he should have told Captain Rendeg—but what would that have accomplished? Rendeg looked upon Drían like a brother; he would have scorned Solin's testimony against him.

It was the only thing for it, he told himself sternly, and it's already done; it won't do any good to question whether it should have happened. For now, there's work to be done.

Figuring that he had a minimum of two hours before someone came to relieve the guard on Andrin's tent, where he would find that the prince was gone and raise the alarm, he followed a narrow game trail that was hardly visible even with the moon's bright silvery light. Half an hour's patient trekking through the forest, redoubling and backtracking whenever he lost the trail, was rewarded by the sight of a thick clump of undergrowth and fresh markings of deer-prints. Making slightly less noise than a panther, Solin crept through the trees until he came within sight of what he was looking for.

Nestled against the trees and deep into the undergrowth were five or six dark figures, completely unaware of his existence. Silently, he took his bow from his back, strung it skillfully, drew a thick arrow from his quiver, and set it against the string.

There was a twang, and a young buck let out an unearthly scream of pain as the arrow thudded into its side. The other deer bolted, disappearing within seconds, but the wounded one merely lurched in a terrified attempt to flee. With grim satisfaction, Solin advanced on it, drew the Gadianton dagger from his belt, and ended the poor creature's agony. It gave one last squeal of terror and pain, and then it collapsed limply to the ground.

Heaving the dead deer bodily across his shoulders, he began jogging back in the direction he had come. When he finally arrived at the riverside, he let the animal fall heavily and knelt down beside it, his bloody hands plunging the dagger in again and again and allowing copious amounts of blood to spill all over the ground. Once he was satisfied that it could not possibly go unnoticed even by the most inexperienced tracker, he very deliberately dropped the dagger so that it would look carelessly forgotten. Then he took hold of the hind legs and dragged the body towards the river, allowing it to topple down the bank and be swept away by the rushing water.

Finally, he turned and surveyed his work, silently congratulating himself on a job well done. It looked exactly how he wanted it to. There were a few discrepancies—such as the fact that the imprint of the body was the wrong shape and heavier than the prince's would have made—but Solin was trusting to Drían's human imperfections: he would see what he wanted to see.

Wishing that he had never gotten out of bed that morning but satisfied that he had done his duty, Solin turned and trotted back towards the camp of the army of Gondor.


	7. Part I: Chapter 7

Two weeks isn't that bad, right? Well, for those of you who like updates to come at least every seven days, I apologize that I took so long. I've been swamped: between rehearsals for Lion King, four AP classes, and a piano teacher who'll dump me if I don't practice an hour a day, I haven't had a lot of time for much else. In fact, right now I _should_ be doing my math homework and finishing a biology packet, but… well, quite frankly, this is far more fun. 

The cold, rushing water swirled around Andrin's legs, trying to force him under. The current, strong even next to the bank, made it seem as though he only went one step forward for every three he took. He could no longer feel his legs below the knees; his sturdy leather boots had only kept his feet from the cold for the first few minutes before the frigid water had swept away the warmth.

_Two thousand thirty-three… two thousand thirty-four… two thousand thirty-five…_

He figured that three thousand steps would take him a mile where the soldier whose name he did not know had said it would be safe to leave the river. Each step seemed to take an eternity to complete. His thighs were burning with the effort of moving his feet forward, but he could not stop.

_Two thousand, one hundred and ten… two thousand, one hundred and eleven…_

The moon was descending towards the western horizon, lighting the way before him. He would fix his sights on a tree a hundred yards in front of him and tell himself, _I can make it to there._ Each time, he was sure he would only be able to get to the next point, but each time he forced himself to go on.

_Two thousand, three hundred ninety-seven… two thousand, three hundred ninety-eight…_

He tried to force his mind away from the swirling cold, the pain in his legs, and the numbness in his feet. It landed somewhere even worse: who on earth wanted him dead? Surely no one hated him _that _much. Perhaps Rendeg was angry with him and Belín for breaking his quill and smearing ink all over his breastplate the month before…. But even Andrin knew that people did not murder boys for being boys, and he had felt the love and loyalty in Rendeg's arms as the captain of the guard had carried him from his father's body.

_Two thousand, seven hundred fifty-two… two thousand, seven hundred fifty-three…_

He was counting methodically now, not even noticing the numbers going by. _I wonder what Mother will think. She'll cry for Father, and then she'll hear about me. Will she think I'm dead?_

_Two thousand, eight hundred seventeen… two thousand, eight hundred eighteen…_

He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the heavy log riding the current towards him. It thudded broadside into his chest, crushing the breath from his body and sending him flying backward into the water. He felt his head plunge beneath the surface, and then the current had him, sweeping him back the way he had come. He groped fruitlessly at the bottom for something to latch onto and right himself, twisting in the rushing water. His lungs felt as though they were about to explode, his head pounded incessantly, and his mind was a confused jumble of pain and panic.

Finally, he felt his head break into the stinging air. He fought to keep it above and reached up to grab a branch of a low-hanging willow overhead. Gasping, he latched onto the branch, set his feet under him, and heaved himself onto the bank, collapsing on the thick roots of the tree. He had not gone a mile, but he didn't care; nothing could make him go on. The chilly air stung his wet face, and he quickly started shivering.

_I'm going to die,_ he thought frantically. _I'll freeze to death._

_Eat something,_ he told himself. _It'll help._

With a sinking heart, though, he realized that the pack the soldier had given him, though still on his back, was sopping wet. The dwarven _crâm _would be a soggy mass of slop. Nevertheless, he was starving; maybe the slop would be edible.

He slung the bag from his back and tugged the drawstring to open the neck. To his immense surprise and relief, the inside was completely dry; the canvas bag had been given a coating of water-proofing beeswax, which had done its job admirably. Ravenous, Andrin sank his teeth into the first loaf and immediately felt its strength flow through his body. Remembering after three bites what the soldier had said—that one was enough to last all day—he reluctantly put it back into the bag, and he realized that the waybread was not the only thing in there.

One after another, he drew out a thin, steel knife, a piece of rock that he suspected might be flint, a working compass, a small vial of oil, and a thin, golden chain with a small jade set in a gold-plated piece of metal dangling from it.

He shoved the compass, the vial, and the amulet back into the pack; he did not need them. Gathering a small pile of dry leaves and twigs from the ground, Andrin strained to remember the time that Belín had taught him to make a fire without a torch.

"You put the really little, really dry stuff on the ground," his cousin had told him, "and run the flint along the knife towards it. If you're lucky, it'll catch." He had added boastfully, "I can do it every time."

Fervently hoping that he was as lucky as Belín, Andrin set the rock against the metal of the blade, scraped it forward, and waited for something to happen.

There was nothing.

He tried it again, and this time he saw an orange spark flare briefly in the night before it died away once more into nothingness.

_Please,_ he thought desperately, _please catch. _

Again. Nothing.

_Oil burns, _said the practical part of his mind. _Use that._

Praying to any god that might be listening, knowing that if he could not get this fire started he would die that very night, sprinkled a few drops of the oil over the leaves, took a deep breath, and scraped the stone against the blade.

Several sparks landed among the leaves. Most died out immediately, but one spread, scorching a hole through the dead skeleton of a willow leaf. Barely allowing himself to hope, Andrin leaned forward and blew on it as softly as he could. The edges of the ever-widening hole flared briefly from dull red to glowing orange, then faded again. Another breath, another surge of orange, and then—

A tiny tongue of flame leapt up from the charred leaf, quickly catching onto the others around it. Five seconds later, the whole small pile was ablaze. Gently, Andrin laid a bundle of long, dry grass over the flame, barely avoiding smothering it. As soon as that was burning steadily, he placed some small twigs on the pile, progressing to larger and larger ones as the fire caught hold and began to crackle merrily. Finally, with a weary feeling of satisfaction, he dropped one end of a large, heavy stick into the fire, where it began to blacken and burn after a few moments. Content at least that he would not die of the cold before morning, he stripped the wet clothes from his body and laid them in front of the fire, huddling before the blaze in the thin, wet shift he wore under his tunic.

The cloak dried miraculously fast, and Andrin wrapped it around himself as he watched the moon move westward. It took several hours, until he could see the sky in the east begin to lose its shade of inky black, for the rest of his clothing to dry off, and when it did, he put it back on, rolled up in the cloak, and cried himself to sleep.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Dawn broke, frigid and clear, over the small form curled on the ground. Andrin was asleep, shivering slightly, huddled against the stinging, cold air. A stick snapped nearby; the boy started from sleep, sitting up nervously and looking around to see the source of the noise: a small deer that was now bounding away through the trees.

Andrin stood stiffly and walked around for a few minutes, his hands thrust under his arms, to regain feeling in his legs. He tried not to think about the night before or the day to come: the first was a painful memory that he did not want to recall, and the coming day held only fear, for he did not know what to do. He was only ten years old, but even so, he was aware of his own vulnerabilities. He knew he was not the invincible, super-human warrior that he had pretended to be in his games with Belín. His father's death had put an end to most of his childish fantasies, and the events of last night had shattered the rest. He knew that, wet as he had been, he had been lucky to survive the night, and only by some god's divine intervention would he avoid catching pneumonia. He shuddered at the thought: pneumonia could kill just as effectively as the cold, but it would be drawn out and agonizing, whereas freezing to death was said to be virtually painless, just like falling asleep. Though, as Belín had once pointed out, those who had actually experienced freezing to death were in no condition to tell anyone about it.

_Focus,_ he told himself. _Father said that when you find yourself facing a problem, hold still a minute and think about it. Come up with a plan, be prepared for anything unexpected, and then carry it through confidently. _

This oft-repeated philosophy of the late king had been burned into his son's memory, but never had the boy had to apply it without his father coaching him, always beside him to help when he made a mistake. It made the prospect a thousand times more intimidating than it had ever been before.

After a few moments' thought, he decided on a plan of action: eat. After all, Mother always said it did not do any good to think on a hungry stomach.

He had trouble restricting himself to one bite; he needed it to last as long as possible, but he was hungry, and whether or not it gave him all the nutrients he needed, it certainly did not _feel_ at all filling. Then he remembered just why he was not back with the army, with a comfortable blanket and warm food: there was someone who wanted to kill him. This was motivation enough to start him moving again. He slung the soldier's pack over his shoulders, wrapped the soldier's cloak around him, and set off, following the river and very grateful that he did not have to walk _in_ it this time.

The sun climbed higher and higher, and Andrin's dread grew with every hour. They would have discovered his disappearance by dawn, and, if they used an expert tracker, they would find where he entered the river within two hours. That meant that they would catch up to him barely four hours after daybreak. He was not scared of the moment they found him: he was not a criminal, and rather than being punished, he would be met with welcoming arms. What he was afraid of was what would come after; if the soldier whose name he did not know was right, there was someone in Gondor who would stop at nothing to kill him.

But as noon came and went, as the sun began its descent to meet the horizon, as the sky first turned orange, then pink, and then began to fade to a deep blue, nobody had caught up with him. At first, he thought that perhaps they had missed his trail and had to backtrack, but after all the light had gone and Andrin was forced by the darkness to stop, he started having his doubts. He sat down, gathered some dry leaves about him, and after nearly an hour of distracted frustration, he managed to get a fire started.

When he awoke the next morning and the soldiers still had not found him, he decided that they were not coming. This realization came with a myriad of mixed feelings. A lot of it was relief: surely if the best trackers of Gondor's army could not find him, then his would-be murderer would not be either to, either. This was mingled with indignant incredulity. He was the new king: he should be such a high priority that they should search to the very ends of the earth to find him.

But the overpowering emotion was sadness. If the army did not find him, he was going to be alone—more alone than he had ever been in his life. If they did not find him, he would never see his mother again, he would never see Belín or Uncle Drían or Aunt Endrai or Captain Rendeg again. He would never return to Minas Tirith, his home, again.

And as he gazed into his smoky fire, he felt sick with longing. The tears were burning at his eyes again, but he would not let them fall. He forced himself to be strong—his father would have wanted him to be strong.

But the ache of loneliness still lingered.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

_Follow the river for seven days, _the soldier whose name he did not know had said. _Take the left fork every time it branches._ The days wore on, and with one, Andrin's despair grew. He was walking away from everything he had ever known. He understood that there was someone out there who wanted him dead and that if he did not flee, he would remain within his enemy's grasp, but half of him was just as sure that he would perish out here, alone in the wilderness. He could not understand why they had not yet caught up with him, but even though he was trying to evade their grasp, a very large portion of his heart hoped they would stop him.

_Maybe, _he thought as the sun sank on the fifth day, _maybe I could go back, find the soldier, and ask who it is who wants to kill me. I could have him put in prison. Then there would be no danger. _

_But what if he got to me first?_

And so he pressed on.

The first thing he thought when he awoke on the seventh morning was, _I'll be in Rohan by nightfall, where the army of Gondor cannot follow me. If I keep going, I leave Gondor behind forever. _

_What else can I do? _

With the helpless despair of a betrayed child, who does not know where to turn, Andrin set off north for the final leg of his journey into exile.

The morning progressed, and with it Andrin's sense of alienation. The scenery did not change much from what it had been, but knowing that this was the seventh day, the day that the soldier whose name he did not know had said he would come to Rohan.

Noon came, and Andrin sat heavily on a flat rock that was twisted into the roots of an enormous tree. He set his knapsack on the ground beside him, reached in, and withdrew what was left of the first loaf, tearing a hunk off with his teeth. He chewed slowly, trying to think of something he would not give for a hot meal and a sip of the diluted wine his father had sometimes offered him. His eyes blurred sharply at the thought of his father, but he pushed the tears back angrily. _The past is another land,_ he told himself, shoving the bread back into the bag and rising slowly. _Put it behind you._

The rushing river echoed in his ears, as it had for an entire week. Its dull roar had faded to background noise as he had grown accustomed to it, and now he did not notice it at all. He forged forward, trying hard not to think about what he was leaving behind.

He halted as the sun met the horizon. A feeling of utter dismay filled him, and he knew that, dangerous as it was, he did not want to leave his country, his kingdom—his home.

There was a brief moment of indecision that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Behind him lay a nameless, mortal enemy; ahead lay something that seemed far, far more terrifying: the merciless unknown. The choice lay in deciding which was worse.

With a final glance south, towards a city that lay far beyond his sight and a land that could no longer be his, Andrin struck northward up the river once more, determined not to look back again.


	8. Part I: Chapter 8

PLEASE READ THIS A/N!!! Okay, I made a mistake. There was something important that I was supposed to put in a few chapters ago that I completely forgot about. You know the small amulet that Andrin finds in Solin's pack? Well, Drían was supposed to give that to Solin as a token of his trust and a symbol of his gratitude when he gave him the assignment to kill Andrin, and Solin was supposed to put it in his pack and forget about it, and that's how it came into Andrin's hands. So I wrote that into chapter six and reposted it, if you want to go back and reread it, but otherwise, just know that's how the amulet got there—it was originally Drían's. And yes, I know, I just completely gave away that it's going to be important somehow, but I had to fix it and you had to know that I was fixing it, so I didn't really have much of a choice. I suppose I could have just not forgotten it in the first place and saved all of us the trouble, but hey, I _did _forget it, there's nothing I can do about that now, so there's no point in worrying about it. Hakuna matata, you know? Anyway, thanks for sticking with me, and now I'll actually get around to the story…

The next morning broke cloudy and cold, heralding the entrance of fall. Andrin pulled the soldier's cloak tighter around his shoulders as he chewed the last bite of one of the loaves of _crâm. _He had eaten nothing but the dwarven waybread for a week now, and his mouth longed for something else, but he had too many other feelings all crowding for attention and burdening his mind to pay it much heed. The soldier had said that seven days of walking would take him to Rohan, but then what? He was entirely unfamiliar with the geography of this kingdom—he did not know where the nearest village was, or in what direction he should travel to find a road.

Eventually, for lack of a better idea, Andrin set off beside the river once more.

It was not long before the trees cleared, giving way to vast, grassy plains with rolling hills in the distance. The barren setting, contrasting so sharply with the painfully fresh memories of his homeland, brought the tears near the surface again, but he would not let them fall. He would not—could not—allow himself to remember.

An hour past noon, he encountered the first sign of civilization since he had left: a road that ran perpendicular to the river, crossing it with an old, narrow bridge. He stopped at the edge of the broad path, realizing that he had a choice to make. Following the river would ensure him an inexhaustible supply of water, but as far as he knew, it provided no food. A road, on the other hand, while devoid of water, promised that he would eventually come upon a village, a town, or maybe even a city—other travelers, at the very least. He glanced up and down the road and then back at the river that had been his only companion through the days he had been alone, the only constant thing in this new, terrifying life. With a heavy sigh that was drowned out by an ominous clap of thunder overhead, he turned his back on the river and started down the road.

By nightfall, rain had begun to patter from the sky. Andrin searched fruitlessly for shelter, until finally he decided to simply continue walking, covered by the soldier's waterproof cloak, until the storm had drained its wrath upon the world. The beeswax, however, did not keep the rain out as well as the term 'water-proof' suggested; it was not long before he was soaked through and chilled to the marrow. The most he could do was to bow his head against the pounding elements and hope that the downpour would not last much longer.

It began to let up, eventually stopping completely, but that did not change the fact that the road had been reduced to a near-bog with mud. It squelched around his ankles, threatening to tear his boots off with every step. Concentrating hard on putting one foot in front of the other, he did not see the two dark figures approaching him through the gloom. The first he knew of them was when one seized him by the neck and flung him into the mud, and the second wrenched the pack away from him and began digging through it.

"Hold him tight," the second man growled, nimble fingers emerging from the pack with the small vial of oil, which was now almost empty. "I don't want him attacking me."

Andrin, who could scarcely breathe because of the merciless hand pressing his face into the mud, heard the other reply tiredly, "He's but a boy, Rema."

"What's a boy doing, walking a road alone at night?"

"Why don't you ask him?" came the scathing reply.

The man called Rema paused in rummaging through Andrin's pack. The boy could not see him, but he heard a gleeful cackle. "Look! Look at this!"

Andrin fought to turn his head, and he caught a brief glimpse of the soldier's amulet dangling from the man's hand. He struggled to get up, but his captor held him tightly.

"Little beggar boys don't carry around jade amulets. He must have come from a rich house."

Andrin thought, _If only you knew..._

The other man sounded skeptical. "A rich lad would have a horse, or at least an escort. I'll bet he stole it."

There was the sound of flint against metal, and suddenly, a small torch flared in the darkness. "Turn him over and let me get a good look at him."

Strong hands wrenched him onto his back. He spat mud out of his mouth and blinked it out of his eyes, trying to remain calm.

"Hallo," said Rema, blinking in surprise, "he's not of the Mark."

The other man, a slim, bearded one, surveyed him with mild interest. "He looks like a Gondor lad—darker hair and eyes than any I've seen from Rohan."

"Look at his cloak, Lanuar. It bears the White Tree—it's a soldier's cloak."

Andrin wriggled away from his grasp and said with an air of indignant authority that only a prince could muster, "Leave me alone, you snake."

Lanuar laughed and seized Andrin's hair, and a moment later a knife appeared in his hand to hover at his captive's throat. "We've got ourselves a feisty one here. Be polite, lad, or you'll find your blood spilling from your body so fast you won't have time to beg for mercy. We haven't done you any harm… yet."

"Nothing compared to what we could've done, at least," Rema added.

"Let's go," Lanuar said, standing up and releasing Andrin, who almost cried for joy that he was not dead. "We want to be far away from here by dawn."

"What'll we do with the boy?"

The man shrugged. "Cut his throat and leave him. He's served his purpose in so kindly letting us have his pack."

Rema bared his teeth in a wicked grin, and Andrin, utterly terrified, whimpered and tried to scramble away. The knife was in the man's hand, and Andrin opened his mouth to scream.

It never came out. Before the knife had moved an inch, three riders materialized from the darkness. A bow twanged; an arrow thudded into Rema's chest, and he toppled backwards, the torch falling from his hand and going out in a puddle of water. Andrin ducked to avoid any more arrows, and Lanuar, leaping up and running for his life, was stopped fifty feet away by a man who leapt on top of him from his horse. There was a brief struggle, and then the rider had a long blade against the thief's throat. "I've got him!" he shouted to his two companions.

The chaos resolved itself into two mounted men, two men on foot, one riderless horse, and one terrified prince huddled on the ground. One of the men climbed down from his horse and dragged Andrin to his feet. In the light of the moon that had peeked down from behind the clouds, they surveyed him critically.

"What be your name and age, boy?" the only one still on his horse demanded.

Remembering just in time that his name was no longer Andrin, he answered, "I am Thylian, and I am near eleven."

They were joined by the third man, who was dragging a struggling Lanuar in a merciless headlock. "You claim a Rohirric name, yet you speak Common with a definite Gondorian accent." He grimaced as his captive managed to land a blow to his stomach. "Help me bind him, will you?" he grunted to the other two.

They tied his wrists and ankles, and then they returned their attention to Andrin. "No doubt about it," the man continued, looking at the thief distastefully, "you're a Gondor lad. What reason have you to hide your name from us?"

One of the men was checking the pulse of the fallen Rema. "Dead," he remarked disgustedly. "I wouldn't have shot him if he weren't about to kill the boy."

"You saved my life," Andrin said, still breathing hard from fear and adrenaline.

"So is it too much to ask that you tell us who you are?"

There was a moment of silence. "I've left my past behind me," he said quietly.

"Tell us," the one on the horse growled menacingly. "Men—or boys—of Gondor are not welcome here."

Andrin cowered under his gaze, but the soldier whose name he did not know had said to leave his name behind if he wanted to survive. "It—it doesn't matter. It's not important."

"It is to us," the man said sternly. "Tell us, or you face the gallows. We hang suspicious Gondorians, ever since we caught wind of Andrith building up an army."

The third man, the only one who had been silent until now, interjected quietly. "Hush, Arlyos. He's only a boy."

"What if he's a spy?" Arlyos, the one on the horse, demanded hotly.

"Oh, come off it, they don't use boys as spies."

"Andrith may have stooped that low," he retorted. "It's a possibility, Moran, don't deny it. Maybe—"

"King Andrith is dead."

The boy's words stopped the other man in mid-sentence. There were a few moments of ringing silence, and then the one who was still examining Rema, not taking part in the argument, said hoarsely, "He's—he's dead?"

Andrin looked from one to the other, his puzzlement written across his face. "He was killed near ten days past in a battle against the Gadiantons. Had you not heard?"

The men exchanged glances. "Communications between Gondor and Rohan were halted several weeks ago," Arlyos said slowly, dropping down from his horse. "We haven't heard anything from across the border."

Andrin bowed his head, and the tears were there again. They had no idea how much those words, coming out of his own mouth, had hurt him, as though he were finally admitting their truth to a heart that refused to accept it. "It is true. The king is dead."

"Why are you fleeing Gondor, boy?" Arlyos demanded roughly, seizing his collar. "These are strange tidings indeed! Why would a king, concerned with pressing affairs of his kingdom, ride to battle with a rebel band that has done him no harm for over a century?"

Andrin quelled the indignation rising inside of him—this man could not talk to him like that; he was a prince! But something cold clutched his heart as he realized, _I'm not a prince, not anymore. I've left that life now. _He could only shake his head dumbly, afraid of giving away too much. Arlyos shook him. "What are you concealing from us?"

"I—nothing, I'm just—"

"You will hang, boy, if I—"

"Enough."

The blade of a sword came to rest against the arm that Arlyos had raised to strike the boy. Andrin looked fearfully towards its owner. Moran's voice was not loud or sharp, but there was a power and intensity in it that made it obvious that he was the leader. Arlyos, for all his yelling and bravado, could not disobey that voice. He slowly lowered his hand and turned angrily away.

"The men of Rohan could not call themselves men if they hung lads who have not yet seen eleven winters," Moran said quietly. "And though you, Arlyos, are determined to hate Gondor and all of its inhabitants because of what a few men did to you, I do not believe they are any more evil than we are ourselves."

Arlyos shot an angry glance over his shoulder, mounted his horse, and rode away down the road, muttering something about sending word ahead. Neither of the others made a move to stop him.

"Why are we all standing around here in the dark?" the other one asked, breaking the long minute of silence that followed. He dug around in his horse's saddlebags and produced a candle, which he lit with a small piece of flint and the edge of his blade. The wick blazed, and Andrin got his first good look at the two men before him.

They were soldiers; that much was obvious from their garb. Their tunics were made of light leather, not chain mail, but it was emblazoned with a horse that marked them as Riders of the Mark. Each had a helmet on his head, a sword at his side, and a short skirt of mail. Moran was thin, lean, and around fifty years old, but his body spoke of powerful agility and his set, calm face marked him as a man born to be a leader. The other man, using his candle now to light a torch, was even more fair-haired than most men of Rohan, which was saying something, bright-eyed and easily thirty years younger than Moran. He was tall and thin, with a face that looked as though it broke easily into a smile.

"No doubt about it," the second soldier said, peering intently at Andrin. "He's from Gondor." He held the candle closer to the corpse of the dead thief, and he noticed something for the first time. Reaching down, he pried the amulet from the stiff grasp.

"That's mine," Andrin said automatically, reaching out for it.

The soldier was about to hand it to him, but them something caught his eye. He paused, staring at the back of the gold-plated disk. "Sweet gods..." His voice trailed off.

"What is it, Cendrae?"

"I—look at this crest, Captain."

Moran moved in closer, and Andrin felt his heart sink; where had that amulet come from? He should not have said anything—perhaps the crest on the back would incriminate him, prove him guilty of some crime he did not commit.

The captain's brow furrowed. "Where did you come across this?" he asked softly, his eyes boring into Andrin's. The young prince bowed his head, averting his eyes.

"A—a soldier in the army of Gondor gave it to me."

The two men exchanged glances, and Moran heaved a sigh. "Well, son, I have no right to force your information out of you; it's not my place. The only man who can do that is the King of Rohan, and I could hardly presume to that stature."

Andrin let a sigh of relief escape his lips.

"So that's where we're going," Moran continued determinedly, walking towards his horse. "Come here, lad. Thylian, is it? Well, that's what we'll call you, at least. You'll ride with me. Cendrae?"

"Sir?"

"Take the prisoner on your horse, and keep a knife at his throat or he'll bolt. Make him walk when your mount gets worn out. We'll ride tonight to Aldburg, where they have a prison you can leave him in. From there it is not half a day to Edoras. We'll leave at midday."

"We're—we're going to the king?" Andrin repeated, alarmed. If anyone could recognize him for who he was, he was sure it would be the king.

Moran laughed. "Yours will be an interesting story to hear, lad," he said as he mounted his horse. He offered a hand to Andrin, but the boy lifted himself into the saddle on his own, unwilling to accept help. "A boy from Gondor wandering the Great West Road without an escort, one who obviously knows how to ride a horse but does not have one himself, carrying an amulet with the crest of the ruling house of Gondor, the House of Telcontar. You wear a cloak bearing the White Tree that marks a soldier's uniform, you wear clothing that is elegant and well-made but looks as though it's all you've worn in two weeks—"

"You carry two loaves of dwarven waybread," Cendrae added, peering into his pack.

"—and you have a reason to hide it all. Give him his things, Cendrae."

The other soldier tossed the amulet to him. Andrin caught it and put it around his neck as Cendrae handed the bag up and turned to his prisoner, still lying on the ground.

Moran circled the two on the ground a few times, and then he said, "We're off then. See you in Aldburg."

He dug his heels into his horse, and it broke into a trot down the road, heading eastward. Andrin heard the younger soldier yell after them, "Or in hell!"

Andrin heard Moran chuckle as they made their way eastward once more. They were silent for a few minutes before Andrin asked, "How came you to be nearby when that man was about to kill me, sir?"

"We've been scouting the Great Road, keeping an eye on things, and we'd been tracking your friends there for several hours. We caught up with them just as they were about to kill you."

"Excellent timing, sir. I owe you my life."

He laughed again. "You're well-mannered as well, are you?"

Andrin left the question unanswered, asking another one instead. "Why was that man so upset at me?"

"Who, Arlyos?" Moran asked darkly. "Don't mind him. Aye, he's had a hard past, but he's chosen to let it make him bitter, rather than getting over it and moving on."

"What…" Andrin began hesitantly.

"What happened?" He sighed, listening to the clopping of the horse's hooves for a few moments before he answered. "May not be my place to tell, but he treated you in such a way just now that you deserve to know. A small band of men—much like the thieves we apprehended back there, but four times as many—were exiled from Gondor some years ago, and they chose to come to Rohan. Arlyos lived on a farm with his wife and child, far from anyone else. One night these men came to his house, demanded his money, and when he turned out very little to give them, they beat him cruelly, and when still he would not—could not—give more, they killed his wife and son, leaving him to stagger a mile to the nearest town. He survived, though it may have been better for him if he hadn't; since then, he has disliked everybody and hated Gondor. He would have killed you as soon as he heard your accent, but he has a spark of decency yet; he would not murder an unarmed boy without a just reason."

"Men from _Gondor_ did that?" Andrin gasped.

Once again, Moran laughed, but this time it had a touch of coldness about it. "Your ignorance is forgivable, lad, because of your youth. One day—I hope for your sake that it is still very far from now—you will come to a terrible realization: those you respect are flesh and blood, imperfect just like every other man, and things that have always been steady and unvarying are really shifting underfoot. The only thing constant is change, son."

Andrin was not sure that he understood what the older man was saying, but something deep within his mind told him to listen closely. Moran continued.

"Who'd have thought that confidence could die?" he said musingly, as much to himself as to Andrin. "But it does… it does. You start to believe there's nothing to fear, that you can take all the tricks and turns that fate throws at you, but in that one moment, the moment before you finally understand, everything that you're sure of slips away."

They lapsed into silence, and as the moon grew larger and larger as it sank towards the horizon, they drew nearer and nearer to the town called Aldburg. The sun was rising when they caught their first glimpse of it, a large cluster of buildings surrounded by miles of farmland. The road wound straight through it, and Moran, showing no signs of tiring despite having ridden all through the night, spurred his horse on towards the waking village.

Andrin gazed around in fascination as they reached the buildings. This town was like none he had ever been to; he had spent his entire life in Minas Tirith until his brief visit to Osgiliath, and both cities were built as fortresses to withstand the tides of war and time. This unprotected, sprawling village was different in its layout and in its construction, and it created a sense of awe in the young boy.

The people, too, were different. None had very dark hair or eyes, and their garb was more colorful than the inhabitants of Minas Tirith usually wore. The women, instead of covering their heads with cowls, wore their hair braided down their back, and most of the men were bearded, unlike the clean-shaven men Andrin was used to seeing. They spoke a mixture of Rohirric and Common, and he could only understand a minimal fraction of what was said, even though he had learned some of their language along with his lessons in Elvish. They looked at him with passing curiosity, and a few hailed Moran, who rode proud and tall in front of him. They reached a small building outside of town, where the soldier reigned in his horse and dismounted, motioning to Andrin to follow. He spoke a few words in Rohirric to the man who stood guard outside the door of the building, gave him a few coins, and then turned to Andrin.

"This man will see that you get a horse," he said, leading his own in a different direction. "I will come for you at noon."

"Yes, sir."

Moran raised an eyebrow. "Don't think about running, lad," he said warningly. "You won't last until nightfall with my men after you. Technically, you're our prisoner, as you've entered our lands from a hostile kingdom. We have been good to you so far; don't make me change that."

"I understand, sir." Where would he run? Behind him lay Gondor, where he could never return. Either side would take him into wilderness that he was equipped with neither knowledge nor supplies to tackle. His only choice was to go forward with the soldiers and pray for the best.

The man in question led him in taciturn stoicism to a livery stable, where he was given a chestnut mare. When he asked her name, the man grunted "Mena" and left.

Left to his own devices, Andrin found a brush and rubbed down the horse, carried water from a nearby well to her water trough, and offered her a handful of oats. Her friendship won, she allowed him to stroke her nose and sit down on the pile of hay in the corner of the stall, where he promptly fell asleep from exhaustion.

Moran found him when the sun reached its zenith, handing him a cold oat scone and telling him to be ready to go in ten minutes. Andrin tore at the scone hungrily, thanking the gods that he was finally eating something other than dwarven waybread. As soon as the last bite had gone into his mouth, he saddled the horse, Mena, gave her another handful of oats, and led her out of the stables, where Moran was waiting with a very tired-looking Cendrae, who had just arrived and been provided with a fresh mount.

"Ready?" Moran asked.

"Yes, sir," Andrin said, putting his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself up. His father had helped him learn to mount a horse a year ago, even though he had been even shorter than he was now. The horse master of Minas Tirith had taught him how to ride, but one of his favorite times was when his father took him riding, and the memory stung painfully. Forcing it down, he turned Mena eastward, facing down the Great West Road.

Towards Edoras.

A/N: Just a brief note: if you don't recall why the relationship between Gondor and Rohan is strained so soon after the War of the Ring (and it's not really that soon, either; remember that Andrin is three generations after Aragorn, and men of his line live around two hundred years, so that's about four hundred years all told), it's in the third paragraph of chapter three.


	9. Part I: Chapter 9

The great city of Minas Tirith loomed in front of them, a white beacon on the gray mountains. The column of men moved slowly up the path, and each somber face reflected the overcast sky. For one man, however, the grief on his face was but a façade that masked his true feelings. Drían's eyes roved from the distant Tower of Ecthelion to the first level of the city, then moving to sweep across the surrounding plains, and it almost seemed to him as though his vision spanned the many leagues to the sea in the south.

_It is all mine._

The feeling of grim triumph that had settled in his breast ever since the deaths of his brother and nephew now threatened to burst its bounds. Fighting to keep his face within the confines of his soldiers' expectations, he held his head a little taller. There would be thirty days of mourning for Andrith, and then thirty more for Andrin, and then, finally, the coronation of the new king.

Yet there was something that ate constantly at him, a thought he could not put out of his mind. There was someone who would suffer more for his actions than either Andrith or his son had. They were dead, true, but one person would have to live with those deaths pressing in on her every day for the rest of her life.

Drían looked straight ahead as the massive gates to the city swung open, refusing to make eye contact with any of the civilians. They would know soon enough what had happened; the still body borne between four horses would reveal one of the deaths, and time only would tell of the other, as Andrin's corpse had been dumped into the river, thanks to newly-appointed Captain Solin.

The solemn procession made its way through the streets, and an almost audible feeling of sorrow began as a low moan and whipped up into a keening dirge as the body of the king passed through the streets, and as the conspicuous absence of the prince was noticed. News evidently traveled faster than they did, for they were met with guards come from the palace to ascertain the truthfulness of the rumor. Drían remained aloof from it all until he encountered the one person in the city he was not sure he could face. If anyone had the power to make him break down and confess, surely it was the woman whom he had wronged so despicably by stripping her of everything she held dear. If ever his conscience were to regain control, it would be now.

_Emotionless, _he told himself. _Do not allow yourself to feel; sentimentality is the fall of every great empire._

Queen Ailanwë met them on the palace stairs. Surely she had heard by now, but her eyes, free of tears or grief, sought Drían's the moment he came into view.

He could not meet her gaze, and it was this that confirmed to her heart what her mind already knew.

And Drían could not watch as she dissolved into tears, collapsing on the white marble stairs, where guards rushed to her side to help her. He forced himself to think of something, anything else—how beautiful Endrai, his own wife, would look with Ailanwë's crown gracing her brow, how stately Belín could be now that he was the prince of a kingdom—but nothing could free him from the look in the queen's eyes as, in one agonizing second, her heart was shattered forever.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

To other men, the chief city of Rohan paled in comparison to the mighty fortress of Minas Tirith. But to Andrin, knowing what awaited him inside, the tall, stone walls and fluttering banners bearing elegant horses that marked Edoras were a hundred times more imposing. He gazed up in awe at the stone pillars on either side of the wooden gates, from which two sentries gazed at the surrounding land. Moran raised his sword in a salute, and the guards up top waved a signal to someone on the other side. Slowly, the gates swung open, and Cendrae kicked his horse towards them, but he halted respectfully to allow his captain through first. Andrin followed the younger soldier, and he caught his first glimpse of Edoras. The road ahead ran straight towards a large hall that sat atop the hill over which the city sprawled, and it was towards this palatial building that Moran spurred his horse.

The city of Edoras was very much like that of Aldburg, but there was one marked difference: his dark hair and Gondorian cloak drew a lot more attention here. He saw fingers pointed at him and heard an intense muttering sweep through the people selling, buying, and working on the street, and a few were even bold enough to shout curses at him from the anonymity of the crowds. Andrin buried his face in his hands, trying to ignore the jeers, not understanding why they hated him so. He heard Moran, riding just ahead of him, mutter, "Hold your head high, boy; cowering will only encourage them. You have no reason to be ashamed."

Concentrating hard to do as he was bidden, Andrin hardly noticed they had arrived at the imposing hall until Moran dismounted and motioned for him to do the same, nodding at Cendrae to stay with the horses. Sliding off the horse and swallowing hard, Andrin followed Moran up the flight of worn stairs to the entrance to the hall. They stopped beside the guards who stood on either side of the wide doorway. Andrin, using his limited knowledge of Rohirric to translate the words to Gondorian, caught a several that he recognized: "Need to talk… King… important message."

A moment later, one of the guards beckoned them into the large hall. Great stone pillars towered towards the ceiling and tapestries depicting many different things adorned the walls. On a raised, stone dais at the other end of the long hall sat a magnificent, ornate chair that Andrin guessed was often occupied by the king. It was empty now, however—they were the only occupants in the entire room. The soldier led them to an inconspicuous door at the side of the hall and knocked softly.

A voice said, "Come in," and they entered a sort of study, a room lined with shelves and shelves of books. One wall was entirely covered by an enormous map of Rohan, a comfortable chair sat in front of a fire, and a desk rested on a thick rug in the middle. Seated in the chair was a tall, broad-chested man, pensively smoking a pipe. He looked around when they entered, and a warm smile broke out on his face. "Moran!"

The captain bowed low. "Your majesty," he said, speaking in Common for what Andrin suspected was his sake. So this was King Halin of the Riddermark, ruler of the Horse Lords. Andrin, who had been peering nervously around Moran, retracted his head and tried to be inconspicuous. He realized too late, however, that this move, rather than averting attention, had drawn it to him.

"And who have we got here?" the king asked curiously, standing up and approaching them. Andrin shoved his trembling hands into his pockets as Moran stepped aside. He was suddenly aware of how small and young he was—how vulnerable he was.

"What's your name, lad?" King Halin asked, his brow creasing as he observed Andrin's dark hair, dark eyes, and Gondorian cloak.

"Thy—Thylian, sire."

The king raised one eyebrow skeptically, but he turned to Moran for an explanation. The captain drew a deep breath. "We found him on the Great West Road about fifteen miles from the western border while tracking a pair of thieves. He's Gondorian, obviously, and he won't tell us his real name or why he's here."

King Halin was looking quizzically at Moran. "Surely you didn't drag him all the way to Edoras to tell me this? He's but a boy—surely he can mean no harm?"

"It's not harm that I'm worried about, sire. Look at what he was carrying. Boy, show him your amulet."

Andrin glanced from Moran to the king, who nodded at him to do as he was told. Hesitantly, he reached down the neck of his tunic, withdrew the pendant, and handed it to the king.

Halin turned it over in his hands, halting suddenly when he noticed the crest on the back. He glanced at Moran. "He gives no explanation for this?"

"He says a soldier in the Gondorian army gave it to him."

"It's true," Andrin said, his confidence spurred by indignation. "He gave me his pack, and that amulet was in it."

"How would a soldier happen across something like this?"

Andrin shrugged. The truth was that the amulet looked vaguely familiar to him—he had seen Drían wear a similar one at times—but how would he explain having been around one of the royal family often enough to notice something like that?

"There's more, sire," Moran continued, glancing at Andrin. "He also… he claims that Gondor's king is dead."

Halin heaved a heavy sigh, sinking back into his chair. "I know. Word has traveled despite the closing of the border."

"The reign of the third king of Gondor and Arnor has ended."

"Aye."

"His son… Andrin, is it? How old is he?"

"Around eleven years, I believe."

"Then he is king now?"

"Alas, no," Halin said, turning to stand pensively in front of the fire. "He was killed as well."

Moran's eyes widened. "He—he was killed? Why did you not speak of this, boy?"

"I—I didn't know—" Andrin said, scrabbling for an excuse, but Halin interrupted him.

"I don't know how credible the information I have is," he said quietly, "but this is the story. The prince was kidnapped by a rebel band and taken into the mountains of Minas Morgul, where they demanded a ransom. King Andrith marched on the Dead City to rescue his son, but he was killed in the attempt. Andrin escaped, but during the march back to Minas Tirith, he disappeared. They tracked his footsteps, which walked beside a larger pair, indicating that there was a man with him, to the side of the river, where the prince was evidently killed by his companion."

Andrin wondered vaguely what the soldier had done to stage his death so convincingly.

"If both Andrith and his son have been killed," Moran said slowly, "who is next in line for the throne? Is Elessar's line dead?"

There was a brief pause.

"Not entirely," King Halin said wearily, sinking into his chair once more. "Eldarion had a second son, Drían. The throne will pass to him."

No one spoke for a while. Andrin looked at Moran, Moran gazed at the king, and the king stared into the fire. After a moment, the captain asked, "Sire? Do you have orders for me?"

King Halin sighed. "Nothing has changed, for the time being. You should return to your post on the western border immediately. Be alert; the new king will likely begin his reign by sending either emissaries or spies. In either case, bring them directly to me."

He lapsed into silence once more, still staring broodingly into the flames in the fireplace, and when Moran did not leave right away, he looked at him questioningly. "Is there a problem, Captain?"

Moran glanced at Andrin. "What of the lad, sire?"

Halin blinked, as though he had forgotten there was a third person in the room. He turned to the boy, who had shrunk back at the reference to himself. "Why did you come to Rohan?" he asked quietly.

"I—I'm running from one who would have my life, sire," he answered guardedly.

"You seek refuge, then?"

"Yes, sire."

King Halin surveyed him silently, and after a moment, a slight smile appeared on his face. "Very well, refuge shall you find. I'll adopt you into my house."

There was a moment of ringing silence, and Andrin glanced nervously at Moran to see if he had heard right. The captain had a look of mingled shock and incredulity on his face. His astonishment seemed too great for words; he could only gape at the king in disbelief.

Andrin opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more, and then tried to speak. "Your house, sire?" he finally managed to stutter.

"Aye, my house," Halin said, sinking back into his chair. "You are yet too shy to reveal your secrets, but perhaps one day we will have them from you. Moran?"

"I—yes, sire?"

"Find Teolir and send him here."

Moran did not move, looking as though he were fighting a battle within himself. Finally, he said in a halting voice, "I—sire, I know—it's not my place, but I must recommend against—the Rohirrim will not—I do not think this is a wise move, sire."

"You're right, Captain," the king said sternly, "it _isn't _your place. I will thank you to hold your tongue when your discretion, which I trust implicitly, urges against wagging it."

Flushing with the rebuke, Moran bowed stiffly and swept out of the room.

After three minutes of a silence that were very awkward for Andrin, standing in the corner while King Halin continued his prolonged gaze into the fireplace, as though searching for the answer to some unfathomable question within the flickering orange flames, the door opened once more.

At first glance, the man who entered could have been mistaken for the king himself. His strong, square jaw, slightly angled eyebrows, full lips, and prominent cheekbones were identical. On close observance, however, Andrin noted several marked distinctions between the two. The most obvious was that the newcomer's hair was entirely blond, while the king's had streaks of gray shooting through it. Halin's eyes were a much darker blue than the younger man's, and he was also rather taller. There was also a hint of a strut in the new man's gait, not quite arrogance but bordering on it, as though he had not yet acquired the wisdom that comes only with age and experience, the wisdom that dashes self-confidence.

"You asked to see me, Father?" the man said.

So this man was the king's son, the prince of Rohan, the same position Andrin had filled until barely two weeks ago in the neighboring kingdom. He rebuked himself sharply as this thought fluttered across his mind, however; he was no longer and never had been, as far as his new life was concerned, a prince.

Halin nodded, rising from his chair. "Teolir, I have a duty for you to fulfill." He motioned to Andrin, and Teolir's eyes flickered to where he was standing, blinking as he noticed the boy for the first time. "This is Thylian," the king continued, "and henceforth I give him to your charge."

"My—my charge?" Teolir spluttered disbelievingly.

"You will teach him to fight and to ride a horse, and when he is old enough he will be inducted into the éored. You are to think of him now as your cousin; he is as much a part of my house as if he had been born into it, and I—"

"This is ridiculous!" Teolir interrupted, finally having gotten possession of himself. "He's not even Rohirric, it's obvious he's from Gondor, and you want to adopt him into the noble House of Éorl? You'll have a revolt on your hands for even proposing such an idea, it's preposterous…"

He lapsed into silence, and after a moment, the king said austerely, "Are you through?"

Teolir opened his mouth as though to speak, then hung his head, blushing. "Yes, sire."

"Excellent. I further charge that you will _not_ argue with me, your father and your king."

"Of course, Father… but—but may I ask: _why_?"

"He is a lost boy in need of a home, and I am offering him one. I am tired of the breach that separates Gondor and Rohan; we should be at peace with each other, as our forefathers intended. He will be a daily reminder to me to make an effort to heal the schism between us. If for no other reason, it will put me in a more favorable mood for the remainder of the day."

There was a strange gleam in the king's dark blue eyes, and something deep within Andrin writhed uncomfortably under its gaze. It crossed his mind that, just perhaps, King Halin of the Riddermark suspected more than he revealed.

There was silence in the room for a few moments before Teolir, letting out a long breath, extended his hand to the lad still shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot in the corner. "Come on, Thylian or whatever your name is. I suppose if I'm going to have to teach you everything from scratch, we might as well start off friends so that I don't end up killing you before you're even fifteen."

Andrin looked nervously at the king, who gave him an encouraging smile, looked into the twinkling blue eyes of the prince and then down at the hand, and with every shred of courage he had, he grasped it.

Every man, his father had told him, has turning points in his life, moments that redefine who and what he is. Never is a man truly the same afterward, nor will he ever be again. For Andrin, this simple gesture was his turning point. In taking the hand of the prince, he was no longer a boy of Gondor; he was fully embracing this new role that had been thrust upon him.

Now he was a man of Rohan.


	10. Part II: Chapter 1

The smell of hot bread wafted around the large room, mingling with the scent of stew and the hint of an odor that was vaguely reminiscent of horses. The clatter of the utensils in wooden bowls blended with the sound of men's voices, and a merry fire blazed in the enormous fireplace, joining the many torches on the walls in lighting the Hall of the Éored. Though the dark night outside was complete and the moon had not yet risen, the Hall was bright with the dancing light of the flickering flames.

An inconspicuous door at the east side of the room opened, and a few heads turned as a man slipped in. He removed his cloak to reveal a golden head of hair, glanced around the Hall as though looking for someone, and, locating the object of his search, he wended his way through the maze of occupied dinner tables to one in the corner, where a group of seven men sat.

The man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a quick step. He was only in his early thirties, but his eyes, grave and slightly sad, revealed wisdom beyond his years.

"Teolir!" one of the men at the table towards which he was heading hailed him jovially, noticing his approach.

"_Captain_ Teolir," he grumbled, but a faint smile betrayed that he was not really upset.

"We'll call you 'Your Royal Majesty, the Venerable Prince Teolir,' if you prefer," a second one smirked, moving over to make room for him on the bench.

"And as the prince, I sentence _you, _Keinen, to death for mocking a member of the royal family," Teolir said calmly as he sat down.

"You can't," Keinen said, entirely unfazed, as he plunked a bowl of stew down in front of his captain. "I'm the best soldier you have. If you kill me, you'll lose if Gondor ever starts a war."

Teolir shifted uncomfortably, a movement that did not go unnoticed by his companions.

"What's wrong, Captain?" another man asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," he answered a little too quickly.

The men around the table exchanged glances; they all knew that "nothing" was far from the truth, but none was willing to press him. They had individually determined that they would simply have to wait when the prince decided to open up of his own accord.

"We're at war," he said quietly.

The noise of the Hall seemed suddenly muted as the men at the table registered what he had said. A few blinked disbelievingly, and someone let out a long, slow breath.

"War," Keinen repeated hollowly. He was not surprised that Gondor _would_ come to war with them, but shocked that they _had. _

"Aye," Teolir affirmed grimly, moving his spoon aimlessly through his bowl of stew. "Word has just come that Drían plans to march in six days. My father is going to come and announce it as soon as he's discussed his own plans with the captain of the guard. Daine—Daine, where are you going?"

One of the men had gotten up from the table and started determinedly towards the door. He glanced back at Teolir's question. "I'm going to spend tonight with my family," he answered resolutely. "I'll not see them for a long time, not if we're going to be fighting, and it will not be said of me that I shirked my duty as a father and a husband. Forgive me, Captain."

Teolir nodded his assent, though he doubted that a refusal would have changed anything. He put his head in his hands. "We can't win this war," he muttered. "We don't have the men, the supplies, the preparation… our only advantage is our cavalry."

"I didn't believe Drían would actually do it," joined another man hoarsely, looking as though he had only just found his voice after the bleak announcement. "The Oath of Éorl should not have been so easily broken."

"He wants to expand Gondor's empire, Rewn," Keinen said wearily, running a hand through his hair. "He's a greedy, filthy, selfish piece of rotting, maggoty—"

The enormous doors at one end of the Hall let out a loud groan as they were pushed open. The men fell silent, a hush starting closest to the doors and sweeping back as everyone realized who had entered. The king, flanked by two soldiers and followed by the captain of the guard, strode inside, face set as he made his way towards the other end of the hall, where he mounted a raised stone dais and turned to face his soldiers. The captain of the guard halted respectfully to the side of the dais, and the two guards who had entered with him shrank into the anonymity of the crowd. Several seconds of utter silence reigned before King Halin started to speak.

"Éored!" he began, gazing around at the waiting faces of the men. "My friends, my countrymen, my brothers, I stand before you today to bring grave tidings that will sadden many hearts, but are not unexpected. I have tried for fifteen years to rebuild our relationships with Gondor, to make as it was at the beginning of the Fourth Age when an oath was renewed between King Telcontar of Gondor and King Éomer of the Riddermark. While I believe that Andrith would have been willing to make amends, his brother will have none of it. He has continued to build up his army, to ignore my entreaties for peace, and now, now that he believes he has enough men, he has decided to come to war against us."

There were three seconds of ringing silence, and then an intense buzz exploded in the room. It took a full minute for it to die down, and the entire time, the king stood looking solemnly out over the soldiers—amounting to nearly two hundred men—who had gathered here for supper. It was not a surprise that Drían had decided to attack, but that he had actually _done _it, after all those years of waiting, all that time spent in ambiguity of action—that was what shocked the men. His eyes latched onto a table in the back corner, where Teolir sat with his small band of men. They were the only ones who were silent; they had evidently heard the news already.

When the noise had finally ceased and all attention was focused back on Halin, he cleared his throat. "He plans to march in six days, according to spies within his realm," he said with a heavy sigh. "He will be at our border in two weeks. I have talked with Moran, the captain of the guard, and we have agreed on a defensive strategy. Everyone in this room is henceforth promoted. Each of you, as the éored, will serve as a captain over a faction of thirty Rohirrim, and if you are already a captain, you will have jurisdiction over seven or eight of those factions. We will send out word immediately for all able-bodied men to come to Edoras, where, if they have none, they will be equipped with what armor, weapons, and horses we can supply. As soon as the first hundred men arrive, three factions will start for the western border. Three more will depart with the next hundred men, and so on. We will call for all villages on the border to be evacuated to one of the larger cities, Aldburg, here, or perhaps Snowbourne. You will all be ready to do whatever is required of you by tomorrow morning."

He paused, biting his lower lip as though trying to put his thoughts into words. "During the Great War at the end of the Third Age," he said slowly, starting to pace back and forth on the dais, "Rohan always had an army mustered, and each captain had command of one éored. Times of peace changed that; with no need for men to be constantly ready for battle, more and more of the éored were disbanded until my grandfather's time, when there was only one left. The one éored we have now serves as the elite riders of the King of Rohan.

"That must change now," he continued gravely, "for peace has been shattered and war is upon us. The éored of old are back: there shall be nigh ten score of them. I have seen you, soldiers, work hard side by side, make good friends, trust each other without question. You have become brothers.

"Our army cannot function, cannot come off victorious, if that level of camaraderie is not replicated in each new éored. Spite, malice, mistrust, and hatred will eat away at our ranks as surely as water rusts away the strongest iron. It will be your responsibility as captains to ensure that that _does not happen. _It is your duty to your king and to your kingdom to keep dissention, hatred, and rebellion out of your éored. Do not fail me now."

Another moment of silence reigned before one man seized his mug and raised it into the air. "Long live the King of the Riddermark!"

The call echoed throughout the Hall, and men drank to the king's health as he stepped down from the dais and swept towards the still-open doors. Moran, recently-promoted captain of the guard, mounted the stairs. He gave a short explanation of how the army would be divided and who would be dispatched first, and then he too descended and started towards the door. However, instead of exiting, he made his way towards the table where Teolir and his men sat.

"The king wishes to see all of you in the meeting room immediately."

Teolir's brow creased, but he did not ask questions. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Moran left, and the men at the table exchanged glances. "What does he want with us, Captain?" Rewn asked, voicing the question that was on every man's mind.

Teolir shrugged, getting to his feet. "Whatever it is, I'm not going to keep him waiting."

With a murmur of general agreement, the others stood as well and followed him out. They began walking quickly up the road towards the top of the hill over which Edoras sprawled, crowned by Meduseld, the Golden Hall. Teolir, however, deliberately allowed his pace to slow, letting the other men pass him, deep in discussion about the coming war. One man lagged slightly behind, absorbed in his own thoughts, not listening to the others. Teolir dropped back beside him, but the man did not speak to him or even acknowledge his presence.

"So?" Teolir said after a moment.

The others were nearly a hundred feet ahead of them by now, and the two men made no attempt to catch up. The man glanced at Teolir, let his eyes rove skyward, and then dropped them back to the ground. "So what?" he finally said.

"What are you thinking?"

"What should I be thinking?"

Teolir glanced at him, drawing in a deep breath. "Most men have a war on their minds tonight."

"Indeed."

"Is that not the subject of your thoughts?"

"Of what consequence is it?"

The captain allowed a half-smile to flit across his face. "You can certainly be evasive when you so choose."

"Fifteen years has made me quite an expert in that field."

"After all that time, will you still not tell me?"

"After all that time, why do you still bother to ask?"

Teolir shook his head. "Old habits die hard."

They lapsed into silence for a few moments before Teolir spoke again. "You have only answered my questions with more questions."

"Sometimes those questions lead you to find the answer for yourself, and you are always a better man for it."

"I know you're trying to get me off the subject, but I'll not be deterred. What are you thinking?"

"The stars are beautiful."

"You're avoiding my question."

"Not at all."

"Then tell me what you think of this war. That's a direct order from your captain."

"Yes, sir. I think it's a shame that King Drían could not be satisfied with the peace that King Halin offered, and that he feels as though he has to conquer the Mark for power and wealth."

Teolir sighed. "You're really not going to tell me, are you?"

The man raised his eyes slowly, eyes that might have been blue or green or gray, but were more likely a dark, sparkling mixture of the three, as though a sea, quiet and still before the storm, were reflected in their depths.

"You want to know what this is doing to me," he said quietly after a long silence. "You want to know how I feel about all of this. I'll tell you. I feel exactly the same as you do: resolved not to fail, determined not to let Gondor ravage my home."

Teolir halted, looking hard at him. "No… pangs of regret? No second thoughts?"

The man, who had kept walking, now stopped as well, turning around slowly to face him.

"You dare to question my loyalty?" he asked softly, the sea stirring in his eyes.

"Fifteen years have not managed to rob you of every last vestige of your homeland, Thylian."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then Thylian answered.

"Then only the gods may forgive me. I have done my best."

"You feel no allegiance to Gondor?"

The waves crashed in those fathomlessly deep eyes.

"I am a man of Rohan."

They had reached a small building on the edge of the grassy expanse that surrounded the Hall of Meduseld. The other five men, who had arrived slightly ahead of them but waited respectfully for their captain, were grouped around the door. Teolir stepped up smartly and rapped on the door, and a voice from inside invited them in. One by one, they filed through the doorway and into a cheerily lit room. The king stood beside a water basin in the corner, and as they entered, he splashed some over his face and dried it with a towel, motioning for them to sit down at a long table in the middle of the room. They assumed their seats and waited patiently for Halin to seat himself at the head.

Despite the restless vitality that shone in the king's eyes, no one could deny that age was catching up with him. His once-blonde hair was now a silvery sheen of gray, and his step was slightly slower than it had been. There was a weariness in his limbs as he lowered himself into his chair that betrayed his failing strength.

"You men," he began slowly, gazing around the table at each of them, "will be the first to be assigned éored and leave. Yours will be a very important task; not only will you arrive first and scout out the area in order to locate an ideal place for battle, you will also be there in case the Gondorian army arrives earlier than expected."

Keinen exchanged a look with Thylian, and both of them turned their eyes on Teolir, who glanced nervously at them and then back at his father. The prince cleared his throat. "I hate to dash the faith you have in us, sire, and I certainly am not one to underestimate the valor and abilities of a man of the Mark when his kingdom is threatened, but somehow I think that our little bands of thirty men apiece will not even slow down an army of ten thousand soldiers."

Halin laughed. "Of course not. I expect you to turn tail and run at the first sign of them if they come before sufficient reinforcements have arrived. But it is vital that you are there so that you can come back and tell us if they reach the border before our army is grouped."

A quiet, meditative man named Wenthan voiced the question that was on everyone's mind. "What if they should overtake us?"

The king snorted. "Thousands of Gondor men on foot overtake so few Rohirrim on horseback?"

"It is wise to consider every possibility, sire," interjected another, Mihnae. "What would you have us do?"

Halin leaned back in his chair, stroking his short beard pensively. "Always have one or two men following you at a distance of a mile or so, and if the ones ahead come across the Gondorian army, they will send a flaming arrow into the sky. That way they have a mile's start, and the message will get to us no matter what happens to the rest of the group."

This idea did not seem to be greeted with much enthusiasm. The men exchanged glances and then looked again to Teolir, who cleared his throat once more. "Er… sire?"

"What is it?"

The prince drew a deep breath. "Every one of my men is prepared to die a thousand deaths for his kingdom; it is an honor and a privilege. But I believe that you may be sending them needlessly on a suicide mission. Why not wait until there are two or three thousand Rohirrim gathered at Edoras before you send us out?"

Father's eyes met son's, and both were grave and solemn. Both understood the gravity of this decision.

"And what if," Halin said finally, "Gondor's army _does _come early? If we wait to set out troops, they will march straight across our borders and meet no resistance until they reach Edoras, where we will be woefully unprepared. No, my son, some must go ahead or we run too great a risk of losing this war."

Teolir bowed his head. "Yes, sire."

King Halin briefly laid his hand on his son's shoulder, then stood. "You are excused," he said to the men still seated at the table. "Riders are at this moment being dispatched for every city, every village in Rohan, and by tomorrow afternoon they will begin arriving. You will be needed to organize the distribution of weapons, horses, and supplies, so sleep soundly that you will be rested when you are called upon."

When the king said no more, the men glanced at each other one more time, stood up, and filed slowly out of the room. After a moment, only King Halin, Thylian, and Teolir remained. The prince turned to the friend who, over the past fifteen years, had come to be like a brother to him.

"I will ride with the first éored," Teolir said softly, "and, if you so choose, you will ride with the second."

"Anything that you ask of me, I will endeavor to do," Thylian answered, and with a slight smile, he left the room.

After a moment of silence, King Halin winked. "I told you that taking him into our house was a good idea."

With a smile that was more grim than amused and eyes that seemed to reflect the unknown dangers that the future held, Teolir followed Thylian into the night.


	11. Part II: Chapter 2

I have to bombard you with a really long author's note before we begin, so brace yourselves.

First, I'm _incredibly _sorry that this took so appallingly long to update. I was swamped with school and church stuff for two weeks, and then I wrote the chapter but absolutely despised it, so I had to come up with some ideas for fixing it… anyway, it ended up taking a really long time. I apologize profusely and beg you to count your blessings: in my last story, one of my chapters took four months to post. Consider yourselves lucky.

Secondly, I have a bit of a problem. There's something that was supposed to be clearer last chapter than it ended up being: Andrin and Thylian are the same person. Fifteen years have passed, and Thylian (Andrin) has assimilated into Rohirric culture. Remember how he introduced himself to everyone in Rohan as "Thylian?" Well, now he's left "Andrin" behind and he even refers to himself by his adopted Rohirric name. Trust me, I had a devil of a time trying to decide whether I should call him Thylian or Andrin: both seemed appropriate in some ways and inappropriate in others. As my readers, you are also in a way my editors, so your opinions and critiques would be very welcome on that point.

On the other hand, Thylian and _Teolir_ are NOT the same person. Thylian is Andrin: Teolir is the son of Halin and the Prince of Rohan. That one was entirely my fault—I made the names too similar. 

Alright, now that we've cleared that up (and if it still doesn't make sense, feel free to tell me), we can proceed with the actual chapter, which, in fact, isn't about any of the aforementioned characters at all.

"We'll have to sell the mule."

The man sank wearily into a rickety wooden chair, the only furniture in the room other than a thin straw pallet in the corner. His head sank into his hands as he repeated his words helplessly. "We'll have to sell it."

"The mule is all we have," answered another voice. This one belonged to a woman, entering the small room with a basket of clean wool borne on her hip. She set it down and stood behind her husband. "If we don't have a mule, we'll have to plow the field by hand."

"So be it," he answered hoarsely. "We will work day and night if we have to, but the field must be plowed, and the mule must be sold." With a heavy sigh, he stood up and crossed to the mat in the corner. "We have to get a physician here, and there's only one way we'll get enough money for that."

He knelt down slowly beside the straw pad. With loving tenderness, he reached out a gentle hand and placed it on the forehead of the small girl who lay there. Her skin was pale and shiny, and though she was asleep, she tossed fitfully under her father's touch. Her blond hair was a tangled mess on the pallet, lank and damp with sweat.

"Quenne," he whispered soothingly, "Quenne, it's Papa. Can you hear me?"

Her eyes flickered open, but they were glazed over, delirious with the fever. He laid his hand against the side of her face, but she did not seem to recognize him. "Quenne…" he said softly, and he bowed his head, whether in anguish or in silent prayer, his wife could not tell. She set her basket down in the corner and joined him beside the girl, trying not to allow her own tears to fall as she watched his splash to the ground.

"I'll go fetch Eiliel," she whispered. "I set her to work clearing a corner of the field because she kept hovering in here, torn between misery and helplessness, in no way helping, but she's the only one who Quenne seems to respond to."

There only seemed a fleeting moment between when she disappeared and when Eiliel entered. She had the radiant look of a girl barely become a woman—around twenty years old, with a full face and graceful walk. Her golden hair was braided in a long plait down her back, quite a contrast to the usual flyaway curls that she preferred to let hang loosely around her shoulders. Her face was tearstained, and her hands shook slightly as she knelt beside the man.

"How is she?" she asked tremulously, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

He seemed unable to speak for a moment. When he did, it was an effort. "We need to get the doctor in here. Her fever is worse."

The tears stung Eiliel's eyes again. "Worse," she repeated hollowly.

"Aye."

"We can't afford a doctor."

"We'll sell the mule."

Eiliel felt a sob escape her throat. "How are we going to bring in a crop? We won't be able to plow the field early enough—it will freeze before it's ready to harvest."

He shook his head grimly. "We'll have to do what it takes," he said quietly. "We'll get by, I promise." He stood up abruptly. "I'll have Khale take the mule into town and sell it, then take the money and ask the doctor to come."

A moment later, Eiliel was alone with Quenne. With some effort, she moved her sister's head into her lap and began to softly stroke the curls.

"Quenne," she said in a low voice, trying to hold back the barrage of tears that threatened to burst the bounds of her self-control. "Do you want to hear a story?"

There was no answer, but the girl's shivering spasms seemed less violent now.

"When you were first born," Eiliel continued, kissing the sweaty brow, "not an hour old, I told Mama, 'Quenne is mine.' You got a fever shortly thereafter, worse than this one is, and they didn't think that you would make it through. But I told them—I told them every hour that I needed a sister, and I couldn't just let you go. You were going to live, if only for me."

She smiled sadly. "I have Khale, but brothers aren't the same as sisters. I was ten years old when you were born, and I was tired of only having boys to talk to. It didn't bother me that you couldn't speak for the first few years anyway—I talked to you nevertheless, and it always seemed like you understood me better than they did, even if you didn't know what I was saying."

"Eiliel?"

She looked up as a shadow fell across the door. A man, older than she by about two years, stepped into the room. She smiled weakly at him. "Hello, Khale."

Her heart went out to her brother upon seeing the expression on his face: it was one of complete and utter helplessness. Poor Khale, so used to being strong and smart enough to do anything that was asked of him, found to his dismay that his physical and mental abilities could not fight the illness that was killing his sister. He shied away from the corner in which she lay, as though unequal to seeing her in such a weakened state. "I—I just wanted to ask, is there anything you want me to take care of while I'm in town? Papa wants me to sell the mule."

"Aye, I know."

"Anything I can do for you there?"

She glanced at Quenne. "Do you think I could come with you?"

He shrugged, an attempt at calm nonchalance that was a mask for his feelings of tension and despair. "Why?"

She felt the tears trying to force themselves past the lump in her throat. "I need to get out of the house," she said hoarsely. "I can't stand just _sitting _here anymore, doing nothing."

He looked grateful to know that he was not the only one suffering such emotions, and in response, he reached down to help her up. Papa entered with a fresh pail of water just as they left the room, and Eiliel asked whether she could go into town with Khale. He looked torn; he knew that Quenne needed her sister, but he also knew that if he forced her to spend any more time in there, it would drive her mad. Only after securing a promise that they would return as quickly as possible, did he give his permission.

Khale tied a halter around the old donkey's neck and slapped its flank to make it move. They began walking swiftly up the road, spanning the half-mile to the town in less than a quarter of an hour. They talked, approaching every subject but one that might lead to Quenne or to the coming planting season. Neither was one that they wanted to think about.

The center of Aldburg, as with most Rohirric cities, was a bustling marketplace. Goods were traded, bought, sold, gambled over, and occasionally stolen. Khale, one hand holding the lead rope and the other thrust nervously in his pocket, made his way towards a merchant who might buy the donkey off of him.

Eiliel watched him for a moment, but she was quickly distracted by the sound of pounding hooves. The crowd was parting to make way for a magnificent black stallion bearing a tired and dirty messenger. Leaving her brother to haggle over the price of the animal, Eiliel moved interestedly towards where he had halted in the middle of the marketplace.

Silence prevailed over the group immediately surrounding the messenger, who seemed to be trying to catch his breath. After a moment, he straightened up on his horse, raised his fist, and cried out in a ringing voice, "Gondor has chosen to make war against the Mark!"

Anyone who had yet failed to notice this newcomer could no longer remain ignorant; a hush swept over the crowd as the news was passed to the corners of the square. Eiliel felt something clench within her chest. War? War would mean giving up her father and her brother, just at the time when they were needed most. They would ride away to serve their king, and then only she and her mother would be left to care for Quenne and plant the fields. A feeling of despair and bitterness welled up inside her: how dare they call for men to leave their families in desperate need? She knew it was irrational and selfish—soldiers were needed to defend the borders against the Gondorians—but she could not bear thought of losing either Papa or Khale.

"Gondor has chosen to make war against the Mark!" the messenger repeated, and this time he had the full crowd's attention. "King Halin has sent a request for any able-bodied man to report to Edoras as soon as possible!"

Eiliel's eyes sought Khale out in the throng, and when they found him, the same hopelessness she felt was mirrored in his face. She was hit by a wave of anger towards the king—this man who had never met them demanded that they send their men to fight for him, when they were needed more at home. Trying to quell her rage, she made herself listen to the messenger's next words.

"Your King realizes that coming to Edoras will take you away from your families. It is spring, and there will be planting to be done as soon as the last frost passes. Your wives and your children need you, but your kingdom needs you as well. As compensation, therefore, every man's expenses will be paid while he is under His Majesty's service and a monthly salary of ten lisy'i will be distributed to the family of every man who enlists."

Khale and Eiliel exchanged a look. Ten lisy'i was not a fortune, but it would buy a doctor. Twenty, between Papa and Khale, would secure the rest of the family for as long as they were gone.

"King Halin asks that every man report to Edoras by sundown four days hence—earlier, if possible. You will be issued weapons upon arrival if you have none. Please ensure that this news gets spread to everyone in Aldburg."

The messenger dismounted, heading for the inn, and the crowd dissolved into chaotic noise. Eiliel fought her way towards Khale, who impatiently closed up the deal with the merchant and came out of it with three lisy'i.

"I tried to get five," he told her dejectedly, pocketing the money as they walked away, "but it was hard work to get three. He wasn't very keen to part with his gold."

"I can't say I blame him," Eiliel said bitterly. "That mule honestly wasn't worth more than three."

"Three is something, though."

They walked in silence for a while, tracing their way to the doctor's home with mounting fear that their meager sum wouldn't be sufficient. It was Khale that finally broached the subject that both were keen to talk about but neither wanted to begin.

"I'm going to go," he said quietly.

"I knew you would," his sister answered hollowly. "Papa will, too. He doesn't have much of a choice, anyway. They called for all 'able-bodied men.'"

"Think about it, though, Eiliel," he said, and though it was overlaid with worry and fear and sorrow, she heard the barest edge of excitement in his voice. "Twenty lisy'i every month. That will get you through without even having to plant a crop this year _and _pay for a doctor. You might even have extra."

"What I want to know," Eiliel muttered darkly, "is how Halin is planning on paying thousands of families ten lisy'i a month."

"He levied a higher tax on the richer people about a year ago, and he's probably been stashing that money away for something exactly like this. You have to admit, he's a smart man and a good ruler."

Eiliel didn't want to admit this; she felt irrationally inclined blame the king for everything her family was going through, and it was a lot harder if she had to think of him as a good ruler.

They reached the doctor's house in silence, Eiliel allowing her anger to fester and Khale trying to decide what to say that might make the doctor accept such a nominal fee. He knocked on the door, and it was a long time before the man answered it, his face strained and weary. "What do you want?" he asked rather harshly.

"Sir, my sister is delirious with fever, and she needs a doctor."

His hard expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry, lad, but the fever's breaking out all over town, and I've got too many patients to tend to already. You could bring her here—"

"I'd have to carry her half a mile! That could kill her, and it wouldn't exactly work wonders for my back."

He shook his head slowly. "I can't come. Not when I've got others on the verge of death."

He turned away, starting to shut the door, but Khale blocked it with his arm. "Please, sir," he said, the desperation evident in his face, "she's but a girl, she'll die if she doesn't get help."

"Understand this, son," he said angrily, "I am just one man. I cannot help everyone in Aldburg. Now please, leave my home."

"Will you tell me what I can do for her, at least?" Khale demanded.

The doctor let out a long sigh. "How much money can you give me?"

"Three lisy'i," Khale answered, flushing. He knew the scorn that would follow from only being able to afford such a small amount.

The doctor looked coldly at him. "You expect me to sell my secrets for a measly three coins?"

"I expect you," Khale growled through gritted teeth, "to work in the best interests of humanity, rather than in the best interests of a greedy doctor, especially when you have enough of a fortune to support yourself comfortably for the rest of your life. If you can't do that, then you are no better than the scum of the streets."

This hit a raw nerve. "Fine," he said haughtily. "Give me the money, and I will give you the recipe for a tonic that helps ease the fever."

The exchange was made, and, with barely concealed contempt, the two men shook hands.

Eiliel congratulated herself on having controlled her temper so well. She had been ready to kick the doctor until he was black and blue.

They arrived home just before sunset, and Khale explained what had happened to their parents. He gave the slip of parchment with the potion recipe on it to his mother, the only one in the household who could read. She instantly set to brewing it as Khale and Eiliel exchanged a nervous look that did not escape their father.

"What is it?" he asked slowly, after they didn't offer an explanation.

"A messenger rode into town while we were there today," Eiliel said after a moment.

"Was it public news?"

"He came from Edoras," Khale continued when Eiliel didn't answer. "He brought tidings of Gondor."

"What about Gondor?" prompted Papa.

"They've declared war on Rohan."

"King Halin wants every able-bodied man to report to Edoras as soon as possible."

Papa leaned back against the wall, his eyes closing. "Why now?" he muttered helplessly. "_Now_, of all times…"

"Papa," Eiliel said softly, "they're offering a ten lisy'i compensation for the families of every man who goes."

His head shot up. "Ten?".he repeated hoarsely.

They nodded.

"I'm going, Father," Khale said after a long silence.

Their mother, who had done her best not to react to the news, suddenly sobbed. She put her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stop it, but she could to naught but succumb to the tears that splashed into the old, rusty kettle over which she stood.

"Mama, don't cry," Khale said helplessly. "I have to, and you'll get enough money to pay for a doctor."

"I have to go as well," Papa said grimly, and his wife's sobs redoubled. "You won't regret it, love, not when Quenne has recovered because of the constant care of a doctor. Trust me."

He stood up to make his way over towards Quenne, but he suddenly stopped. His face twisted in consternation as he fell to his knees. Eiliel screamed: Khale rushed to his father's side.

"No," Papa grunted, "I'm fine, I'll be alright, just a moment of dizziness…"

But he could not stand up. Mama laid a gentle hand on his forehead. "It's burning hot," she whispered. "This is how it happened with Quenne, too, she just… collapsed…"

Eiliel dipped a rag in the pail of cold water beside her sister's bed and laid it against her father's brow. They helped him over to the pallet, where he lay, breathing hard. "I'll be fine," he insisted, but his voice was getting weaker. If it followed the pattern it had with his daughter, he would stay awake for half an hour, then go to sleep and never really come out of it, succumbing to the delirium that the fever brought on. Eiliel couldn't believe it; how could things have gotten worse than they already had been? Numbly, unable to think, she helped Mama make the recipe that the doctor had given them. It wasn't finished until after midnight, and by then, they hardly had enough energy to administer it to their father and sister. Finally, exhausted, they allowed themselves to sleep.

Sometime in the early morning, Eiliel jerked out of her slumber. She wasn't sure whether it was an actual noise or just her dream that had awakened her. She glanced nervously around, looking for something that might have made the noise. The dark around her seemed menacing, and the moon cast its eerie light through the cracks around the door.

_Don't be ridiculous,_ she snapped at herself. _You're not a child anymore; you should _not_ be afraid of the dark. _

Settling back down onto her bed—or rather, the thin blanket on the floor where she slept—she let her mind wander off. Maybe it was her dream that had started her out of sleep. It _had _been a strange one: Quenne, perfectly healthy, was waving Khale off, and Khale had been saying, "Don't worry, little one, I'll bring back the army to make you better." Then Eiliel had joined them, bedecked to ride to Edoras to join the King's éored as well, saying that women should be allowed to fight alongside men—

Her eyes flew open again. The idea that had just hit her made her heart pound furiously in her chest, and she was sure that Khale and her mother, sleeping in the other corners of the room, would hear it. For a moment, it seemed wildly impossible, but as she considered it, rolling it over in her mind, she thought, _Maybe_….

Even if Papa got better within the next two days—unlikely—he would be too weak to ride with the Rohirrim. Khale would still go, but their prospects had just diminished: ten lisy'i a month could not pay to support Mama and Eiliel and a doctor to take care of _two _invalids. They _needed_ that extra ten lisy'i. They had no other men in the house, but perhaps, just possibly, they wouldn't need another one.

Adrenaline surging through her veins, she rolled off of her blanket and crawled over to the corner in which Khale slept. She laid a hand on his arm and he bolted upright, grabbing her wrist. He relaxed when he realized it was only his sister.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What're you doing?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

She swallowed hard, knowing that if she said it, she couldn't let herself take it back. "I'm coming with you."

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, rolling over.

"To Edoras."

He stopped rustling, and silence fell over them. "To Edoras?" he repeated disbelievingly.

She nodded.

Khale snorted so loud that Eiliel was afraid he'd wake Mama, who had fallen asleep seated next to her husband, holding his hand. "You can't be serious," he said, half laughingly. The other half, however, was nervousness, as though he feared this harebrained scheme of hers might be in earnest.

As if in response, Eiliel stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, under which was laid their meager collection of cooking utensils: crude wooden bowls, their kettle, some spoons, and a rather dull knife. She picked up this last item, pulled her long, braided hair over her shoulder, and took a deep breath. Without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she used the blade to sever her hair. The long, golden end of the braid fell to the floor, and she shook the rest of it out, leaving her with hair that was shoulder-length. No woman wore her hair that short—only men.

Khale just stared at her, unable to believe she had done it. Eiliel laid the braid and the knife on the mantelpiece. She didn't know how to write, and even if she had, she didn't have any parchment to leave a note on, but her mother would know what the hair meant. She turned defiantly to face her brother. "I'm serious," she whispered.

She expected him to get angry at her, to try to deny her permission to come—anything but what he did. He stood up, crossed to her, and embraced her warmly. "For your sake," he muttered, fingering her short hair, "I would have you stay behind. But since you're resolved on going and nothing I say will make a difference, I'm glad you'll be there with me."

"We have to go," she whispered as they broke apart. "If Mama wakes up, she'll never let me leave."

His eyes darted around the room, looking for anything he might want to take. His eyes locked on a trunk beside the fireplace.

It was where their family kept everything that meant anything to them. An old letter from a now-deceased grandparent, perhaps, or a bridle harness that Papa's horse had worn before he'd had to sell it. Khale crossed to it, lifted the lid slowly, and withdrew five things: a tunic of chain-mail, a belt, a helmet, a scabbard, and finally, a sword. He handed them to Eiliel.

She refused to take them. "No, you can have them. Grandfather's armor would rightfully be passed to you."

He looked as though he were about to argue, but he decided better of it. Instead, he seized her up. "You can't go join the éored if you're wearing a dress," he told her.

After he had supplied her with his only spare set of tunic and leggings, they were ready. They looked around the room one last time, their eyes lingering with loving fondness on their family, grouped in the corner.

"We're leaving them in order to help them," Khale muttered, as though to assuage a guilty conscience—though whether it was meant for himself or for his sister, Eiliel didn't know. "With twenty lisy'i a month, they'll be fine."

"I certainly hope so," she answered softly.

Fifty steps from the door of the house, guided by the light of a bright moon, Khale halted. "We can't walk to Edoras," he said. "We're going to need a horse. Or two."

They looked at each other. There was only one way they were going to get a horse, and since they couldn't afford one and didn't know anyone who would give them one, that left—

"I never liked that stable master I worked for a few years back," Khale muttered, as though to justify what he knew he would have to do. "All the times he yelled at me or tried to hit me…. He was a regular scumbag, that one. Dishonest in his dealings with everyone."

"He has plenty of horses, and even if he didn't, he has a fortune," Eiliel added.

It wasn't difficult. The stables were guarded by only one man, who, fortunately, was drunk and let them pass with a jubilant, "All hail King Halin!" Eiliel had to smother her mouth to keep from laughing. They walked out leading a chestnut and a bay, fully bridled and saddled, out towards the Great West Road. Eiliel hadn't ridden a horse since she was a small girl, but Khale, who had worked for the owner of these particular horses when he was fifteen, patiently showed her how to mount and ride the bay mare. He took the wilder chestnut stallion that Eiliel was afraid to go too near—it looked like it was glaring at her, as though it would be glad for the chance to trample her underfoot.

"Horses can sense fear," he said softly as he helped her mount. "If she doesn't think you're afraid, then she will have respect for you, and only then will she bear you well."

He had her ride back and forth in front of him a few times and declared that, like most Rohirrim, she had taken very naturally to riding a horse. With one last look at each other, they set off down the Great West Road, towards Edoras.

Towards war.


	12. Part II: Chapter 3

A/N: Ach! Another slow-in-coming chapter. I have a million excuses, but you don't really want to hear any of them, so I'll just say that I was busy and distracted and lazy. Anyway, thank you to those of you who reviewed the last chapter, and hopefully the next one will be written in a more timely fashion.

The scorching heat and beating sun made it feel as though Khale and Eiliel were traveling through the lair of the Devil himself. They had brought precious little food, and their only source of water was a remote tributary of the Anduin that was nearly half a league away from the road, a detour they did not have time to make as often as they needed it. They would have followed the stream instead of the Great West Road but for fear of missing Edoras when the water turned north.

It seemed an eternity before the blazing sun began its descent towards the western horizon. The summer heat began to recede with the coming of dark, and their eyes, sore from the sweltering day, were given a much-needed respite.

It wasn't until the moment just before the sun set completely that they caught a glimpse of their destination. The plains rolled in large hills, and as the road crested one of them—

There it was, the city of Edoras, a black mass sprawled across a dark hilltop some three leagues away. Exchanging a glance, Eiliel and Khale spurred their horses into a trot.

There was silence for a long while as, finally, the light of the sun succumbed to that inky, black canopy, the tattered blanket through whose holes gleamed silver stars. Finally, Khale spoke, and his tone was slightly sullen. "I don't know how you plan on pulling this off, Eiliel."

"I've got to try, haven't I?" she answered grimly, gazing towards the distant city. "It's too late to go back now."

A noise from deep in his throat indicated his grudging consent. She did not understand; he had been glad to have her come, but now he was acting as though it had been against his better judgment. She glanced at him; his gaze was locked straight ahead, towards Edoras, but his eyes were slightly glazed, as though his mind was elsewhere.

Irritated enough to remain in hostile silence, Eiliel drew a deep breath and tried not to think about her brother, but before she had managed to put him out of her mind, he spoke.

"Really, though, how are you going to get away with this?"

She shrugged. "Stay inconspicuous, don't speak too often…."

He snorted. "This war could last months, and you think you're going to fool everyone you see into thinking you're a man for that long?"

"Well, what do you suggest?" she asked hotly. "What else can I do?"

He refused to meet her gaze.

"You want me to go back, don't you?" she demanded quietly.

Finally, he turned towards her, and she saw an emotion in his eyes that she was not accustomed to in her brother: fear.

"Eiliel," he whispered hoarsely, "what if you're killed? I'm already losing Papa and Quenne. I'd die if I lost you as well."

Her heart melted as she realized the real reason behind his malcontent, and she was touched by his humble candor. She smiled gently at him, but the comforting words she wanted to assure him with did not want to come. Something deep within her recognized the truth in his fears, and its weight pushed her into silence.

It was fully dark before they reached Edoras, and the tip of the moon was barely beginning to show. Eiliel wished she could see more; she wanted to be able to see if Edoras was as mighty as it was described by travelers coming through Aldburg. As it was, all she could make out were the two enormous stone pillars flanking the gates and some of the wall on either side of them.

"Hail! Who goes there?" a voice shouted from above.

They exchanged glances. After a moment, Khale cleared his throat and called back, "Khale and… Radathil, sons of Dilvraen, here to join the king's éored!"

There were muffled voices overhead, and then a loud _creak_, and the gates began to swing open.

With another glance at each other, they moved forward, spurring their horses towards the street. A soldier in full armor was approaching them from near the wall, and he held out his hand, indicating that he wanted them to stop.

"If you've already got your equipment, you can go straight to the Hall of the Éored. If you need armor or weapons," he added, eyeing Khale, whose plain tunic and lack of a sword had caught the soldier's eye, "the armory's but a hundred yards from the Hall." Khale thanked him, and they moved on towards the imposing building he had pointed out, one very near the top of the hill. Eiliel was about to follow him into the armory, but he told her that he could handle it very well on his own, and that she could go directly to the Hall. She still sensed a note of hostility in his voice, but she made an effort to forgive him, trying to remind herself of what he was feeling.

Alone now, she made her way to the Hall of the Éored. The legendary Meduseld, the seat of kings where friendships had been made between Gondor and Rohan, now seemed more like a herald of war than an ensign of peace. Eiliel, who had heard tales of it since she was a girl, felt oppressed by its appearance; it was mightily imposing, rather than, as she had imagined, ornately magnificent. It suddenly struck her how sad it was that the noble alliance between the two kingdoms must disintegrate into this, an ignominious end to such a historic moment. She had had little education past the practical applications necessary to a farmer's daughter, but she had learned enough of history to know of the mighty alliance that had been forged between Aragorn and Éomer, the first kings after the infamous War of the Ring. She had heard that their friendship was more than just political; they had been like brothers to each other, fighting side by side in the almost-hopeless battle against the Dark Lord Sauron.

_What would they think, if they could see what their kingdoms have come to? _

With an emotion that now bordered on disgust for the necessity that humans made of war, she reached the Hall of the Éored. Outside, fully armored and standing beside saddled horses, was a group of about thirty soldiers who appeared to be about to leave. She nervously dismounted, left her horse beside one of the hitching posts, and slipped through the giant double doors unnoticed.

Inside were about fifteen other men, some sitting around a table, others lounging against the wall. Two had spread out their bedding and were little more than incognizant lumps huddled beneath their blankets. Three or four looked up as she came in; only one paid her any attention more than a passing glance. That one stood up and crossed to her.

"What do they call you, lad?" he asked gruffly.

"Radathil," she answered rather apprehensively, giving him the name that Khale had used for her.

He grunted and motioned to the other men. "We're going to be part of the second éored to leave, tomorrow morning at dawn. The first one is just getting ready now—you probably saw them out there." He surveyed her, his brow furrowing. "Do you have any supplies?"

"Outside," she said hoarsely.

"You have a horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he said brusquely, turning away. Eiliel stood there for a moment, unsure whether she was supposed to follow him, and then, making a tentative decision that she was free to do as she pleased, she went back out to her horse. She retrieved her bedroll, stroked the mare's mane gently, and returned to the hall spreading her tattered blanket out in a shadowy corner that was isolated from the other men.

Khale arrived not long after, receiving the same briefing from the same man and then coming to sit beside her. He had been provided with armor that was even shabbier than his tunic, which he laid aside in mild distaste. His sword had seen a lot of wear, but it was of good, sturdy make; it would do, he told her with a slight smile.

All that was left for them was to settle down and await the coming of dawn.

-- -- --

The past two days had not been easy on soldiers in the king's original éored. Aside from their normal training, which was more rigorous than usual because of the imminent war, they had had to prepare the city for the influx of Rohirrim that would crash over them as soon as the message was relayed throughout the kingdom. The armory had to be organized, the horses readied, their personal affairs set in order. The watch all over the city was doubled as a precaution against Gondorian spies, and it seemed like none of them got a moment's rest between their duties.

Thylian knew he should have been exhausted, but he barely felt the pangs of weariness. He would have liked to continue helping, but Moran, captain of the guard, had ordered him to his chambers, insisting that he needed his rest if he was to leave at dawn the next morning. Grudgingly, he had complied; now he lay in bed, tossing fitfully, sure he would not be able to sleep.

The pitch-black night grew slowly brighter as the moon emerged from its hiding place below the horizon. Thylian's eyes were fixed on the window, watching the silvery light grow from a small fragment into a full crescent and then recede again as it rose above his window's view. Teolir was leaving with his éored tonight, traveling with full speed towards the border to gain the advantage over Gondor. They would scout out the area and perhaps send a few spies towards Osgiliath in hopes of intercepting some information.

He pictured Teolir, leading a band of scouts past the Gondorian border, following the Anduin; perhaps, if luck was with him, he would send soldiers as far as Minas Tirith—

He pushed himself abruptly out of bed and wrapped his arms around himself, crossing pensively to the fireplace where the embers from that evening still glowed dimly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the image of the city that he tried never to let himself remember.

He leaned against the mantelpiece for several long minutes, his forehead pressed against the cool stone, silently berating himself for his lack of self-control. It had been years since he had allowed his mind to wander that far; he tried never to let it reopen the wound and renew the fear of his past.

It was not that he was unhappy with his life in Rohan. King Halin had taken him into his own house, given him everything that he could possibly want: a home, an identity, an education—everything.

It was just that, deep within him, he felt that something of his old life had not quite died.

He still felt the barrier that separated him from the rest of the Rohirrim. It was not his dark hair or angular Gondorian face, though among strangers those characteristics certainly alienated him. Even amid those he knew best, the ones with whom he had spent the last fifteen years, he sensed that he was strangely apart. He did not—could not—feel like one of them.

_Stop wallowing in self-pity, _he reprimanded himself sharply. _If you live in the past, your life will slip by while you mourn._

Deciding that he was not going to be able to sleep no matter how hard he tried, he pulled on a tunic and stepped into his boots. The corridors were chilly and deserted, but he paid the cold no heed as he walked swiftly towards his destination. He halted outside a small, unadorned door and knocked softly.

"Enter," said a voice from within the room.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. These were Teolir's quarters, but no one would have guessed that they belonged to a prince; they were no better than anyone else's in the royal house. Teolir glanced up from a knot he was tying on a small bundle and upon seeing his friend, straightened and smiled.

"Are you leaving soon?" Thylian asked, gazing around the room. There was a knapsack leaning against the wall, a saddle beside his sword and scabbard on the bed, and a tunic of chain mail hung over a chair, all waiting to be taken somewhere.

Teolir nodded. "As soon as I can get off."

Thylian surveyed him silently as he finished the knot and tossed the bundle into his pack. There was a moment before the prince spoke. "You should in bed," he said quietly. "You're supposed to leave a half-day after I do, and you'll be exhausted if you don't get some rest."

Thylian let out a long breath. "I couldn't sleep." He began fingering a small ornament on the desk in the corner: a smooth, wooden horse, carved by King Halin for his son when he was a boy. He felt a sharp stab of unspeakable sorrow as he thought of young Teolir at his father's knee, and he set the figure down abruptly, rubbing his fingers together as though stung. The prince had the tact to pretend not to have seen, though Thylian was sure he had.

After a few more moments, Teolir breached the silence once more. "Have you met your soldiers yet?"

"Soldiers," Thylian repeated hollowly, and there was the barest trace of derision in his voice. He turned towards the window, facing the night sky and feeling the cool breeze on his face. "The men coming to Edoras are not soldiers," he said softly. "They are merchants, farmers, doctors, scholars, blacksmiths, horse breeders—not soldiers. Barely three hundred men in all of Rohan have been trained to fight, kill, and die for their kingdom."

Teolir's hands had paused in belting his sword to his waist. He came up slowly behind his friend. "You should not doubt the courage and loyalty of the Rohirrim."

"I doubt neither," Thylian answered. "Only their strength and their skill." He sighed and leaned against the windowsill. "As much as I admire and respect your father, Teolir, I think that not keeping an army trained and prepared was a mistake."

A hand on his shoulder made him turn and meet the prince's blue eyes. "Do not lose faith, my friend," he said softly. "There is hope yet."

He was walking back towards his pack when Thylian said bitterly, "And if we should lose?"

Teolir stopped and turned slowly towards him, his eyes gleaming. "We shall fight," he whispered, "with every fragment of valor we have within us, with every ounce of strength that we can give, and with every hope that we shall come out victorious. And if we should lose, then we shall stand tall, hold our heads high, and meet defeat knowing that we have done everything within our power to defend our kingdom and our liberty."

Wishing that he could find such conviction himself, Thylian watched as his friend finished putting on his armor and collecting his belongings. He offered to carry his saddle, and they walked together in silence towards the Hall of the Éored. Thirty men were grouped in front of it, looking rather restless and cold. Teolir placed his things beside his horse, a tall, black stallion, and addressed the men.

"Soldiers! I am Teolir—your captain and the general of seven éored. We ride tonight for Gondor's border; if we travel at a decent speed, we will reach it in two days. It is our task to scout out the area and find a suitable location to establish our army. Other éored will follow in half-day increments, and by the time the third arrives, we must have a place selected. Remember that you are in the service of your king and your people; their liberty rests in your hands. Prepare to ride!"

Packs were strapped on to horses; men pulled on their last vestments of armor; horses were mounted. Teolir turned to Thylian. No words were spoken between them, but they locked eyes and gripped each other's wrists for a moment in silent understanding: their final farewell before parting. They would not be apart more than two days, but the brotherly bond between them could not be denied a sincere, profound goodbye. Then the prince put his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over his horse, and called out a command, and then he was gone.

As he watched him ride into the darkness, off towards a war that waited on the other side of the kingdom, Thylian felt more alone than he had in a very long time.

"Godspeed, my friend," he whispered. Then he turned away, back towards his chambers, where he would await the coming of dawn.


	13. Part II: Chapter 4

Needless to say, it's been a looong time. I did the beginning right after I posted the last chapter, but I swear, I had to rewrite the rest about seven times before I was satisfied with it. And then I read Les Misérables (yes, the abridged version), which completely shattered my confidence as an author—hard as I try, my characters just won't turn out remotely like Victor Hugo's. In comparison to his, mine are so flat that I want to crawl into a ditch and die.

The eastern sky was fading to gray, and a lark outside was letting out experimental chirps, preparing to welcome the coming sun. No one in the Hall of the Éored spoke: the prospect of their imminent departure held their minds captive and their tongues mute. Nobody knew anything except the fact that they were leaving at dawn; unsure what to do, many of the men simply packed their bedrolls and sat wordlessly against the wall. Eiliel tied her own bedding into a thin roll and looked at Khale. He shrugged—he had no more idea than the rest of them.

The light that had begun as a pale gray had given way to pink streaks by the time anything happened. Subdued conversation had broken out, but a hush fell over the men as they heard several horses approaching the Hall. There were muffled voices outside as the riders dismounted, and two sets of footsteps drew near the door. A moment later, it swung open.

Two men entered, silhouetted for a moment against the eastern sky. The first was a lean man of middle-height with a shock of white hair. He must have been over sixty, but his posture belied his age; he carried himself warily but confidently. His taut, honed body could have belonged to one half as old, and, aside from his hair, the only thing that indicated his age were the heavy wrinkles on his face, lines etched by a life that had seen both hardships and joy.

The second was taller and younger—much younger. His hands were calloused but did not bear the marks of old age, and his face was smooth and beardless. He wore a dark hood that threw his countenance into shadow, so Eiliel could not develop an idea of what he looked like. Unlike the older man, who wore only a tunic and leggings, he was fully bedecked like a soldier: a light metal breast plate, leather arm girders, a chain mail skirt that dropped to his knees, well-worn riding boots, and a long sword dangling at his waist. He hung back slightly as the other stepped forward to face the men who had drawn near him.

"I am General Moran," he said in a powerful voice, "the captain of the guard. I am responsible for all of the king's armies. My authority is second only to King Halin himself; keep that in mind as you make decisions during your time as a soldier. The first éored left late last night, and you will follow them early this morning. When you arrive, it will be your job to help them scout out a location to establish our army and, if possible, to battle the Gondorians. Is that understood?"

There was a general nod of consent, and the man continued. "This," he said, motioning his companion to step forward, "is your captain, Captain Thylian. You are under his jurisdiction until you leave the army or until you are killed."

Eiliel felt a moment of discomfort ripple through the men at General Moran's bluntness, but it was gone a moment later, swept from their minds as he spoke. "You have a responsibility towards your kingdom and, consequently, to your captain; if you are loyal to Rohan, you will obey his orders without question, no matter what you think of him or of his tactics. King Halin and I both trust his judgment, his intelligence, and his capacities unreservedly; that should be reason enough for you to do the same." His eyes swept over the men once more, then he turned to Captain Thylian, clapped him on the shoulder, whispered a farewell, and left the hall.

The captain surveyed them silently for a moment, his face turning towards each man in turn and seizing him up. It was only after a long minute of uncomfortable silence that he spoke. "Men of Rohan," he began quietly, "General Moran has already reminded you of the duty you have to respect and obey my orders. What he failed to do, however, is to remind _me _of the obligation I have toward _you_. As your captain, it is at my command that you will fight and, indeed, die for Rohan. I have a solemn responsibility to ensure that your lives are not risked in foolish or hopeless endeavors, to remember that each man among you is not just a soldier to be discarded in the best interests of the kingdom—that each of you is also a son, a brother, a husband, or a father of someone who is waiting for you to come home."

He paused momentarily. "That said," he continued, "you need to trust that I will do whatever I judge to be best in any given circumstance. If you question whether what I ask of you is necessary or wise, we will not be able to function as an éored—or as an army—should. If you're not willing to have complete faith in me, then you can leave now." He paused as though waiting for someone to take him up on his word, but no one did. He nodded, satisfied. "Very good. Now, we need to be ready to go by the time the sun crests the horizon. Load your belongings onto your horse—if you don't have a horse, go to the stables; they can supply one for you—and put your armor on. It will be hot and uncomfortable, yes, but it's necessary. We'll be like walking targets out on the Great West Road, and we're riding towards war; there's no knowing what we'll encounter unexpectedly. We don't need you stuck full of arrows before we even reach the border. Well, what are you waiting for? Go on." He gestured towards the door, and the men jumped into motion.

Khale and Eiliel exchanged a silent glance, retrieved their bedrolls, and took them outside to put them on their horses. The chilly morning air made Eiliel grateful for her thick, leather armor. She slung the saddle over the animal's back, cinched it beneath its stomach nervously, hoping it would not bolt, and straightened up to find her brother right beside her. She looked at him quizzically, but he would not meet her gaze.

"What is it?" she muttered after a moment.

He stroked the horse's mane pensively. "I think we did wrong," he whispered so that none of the other men readying their mounts would hear.

"Did wrong?" she repeated, looking at him sharply.

"We should never have left secretly like we did, without a word to anyone. You shouldn't have come anyway—it's dishonest and dangerous to pretend to be a man. Then the horses: we _stole _them, Eiliel. It didn't seem so terrible when we did it, but it won't stop eating at me. Nothing can justify it, not even so noble a cause as we believe ours to be."

She felt a spark of exasperated anger flare up within her. "It's a little late to be having second thoughts, Khale," she hissed. "If you want to leave, fine. Go ahead." She turned away from him coldly, but when he did not retaliate with equal bitterness, she felt empty and hollow—guilty that she had snapped at him—but her abominable pride would not let her turn around and apologize as she heard his slow, steady footsteps hesitate for a moment and then walk back towards his horse.

Furious with herself, she turned her attention back to her few belongings, tying them onto the saddle with hands made deft and strong from years of labor on her father's farm. Khale had never been anything but gentle, quiet, and pensive, and here she was, attacking him as though they had already reached the battlefront and it was her own brother that she was supposed to be fighting.

She thrust her left foot into the stirrup and prepared to mount. Khale had always helped her to get up until now, guiding her through every step, but she was confident she could do it without him. Seizing a clump of the horse's mane, she kicked off the ground and swung her leg over its rump.

By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late. The saddle, which she had forgotten to buckle around the horse's chest, slipped; the horse reared. There was a terrifying moment when she seemed to hang in the air, and then she thudded to ground, pain exploding through her body. She gasped, trying to draw breath, but the air had been knocked from her lungs, and the oxygen would not come. Above her a dark shadow loomed—the horse, hooves kicking the air, was about to come down. She tried to cry out, tried to scream, but she could only watch in horror, unable to move, as what would surely be a deathblow swung towards her.

Strong, agile hands wrapped themselves around her torso and hauled. The horse's hooves slammed down, but they met only dust; the hands had dragged her out of harm's way. Relief flooded through her, and she felt the air rush back into her lungs. She was on her hands and knees, but she made no effort to stand; her heart was still thudding wildly, and she was sure her legs would have collapsed beneath her.

When she finally looked up, Captain Thylian was standing above her, looking down at her. "What is your name, soldier?" he asked, breathing hard.

"Radathil, sir," she muttered, forcing herself to her feet.

He jerked his head towards the horse. Khale had seized its reins and was attempting to calm it gently; the saddle was hanging halfway off of its back. "I'll thank you to double-check your saddle before you mount next time," he said coolly. "You could have been killed."

"Yes, sir," she said meekly, standing up and avoiding his penetrating gaze.

He nodded curtly and brushed past her, moving towards his own horse, but she called out, "Captain!"

He halted.

"Thank you for pulling me away, sir."

He turned. Their eyes locked for a moment, his fierce and hers penitent, and then he muttered, "It was nothing," and turned away.

Eiliel watched him go, unable to tear her mind away from those eyes. Captain Thylian certainly looked young, but his eyes, storm-colored and unfathomable, seemed ancient, as though behind them tossed a tempestuous sea of experience.

"The captain's right, you could have been killed—"

Eiliel shook herself and turned to face Khale, who was berating her for not checking the saddle. He handed her the reins of her horse. "Just be careful, alright?" he admonished, turning towards his own mount. She let out a long breath, checked the saddle three times, and lifted herself into it. Only then did she allow herself to think.

It had been close—too close. If her helmet had been thrown off or if Captain Thylian been more attentive, she might have been recognized as a woman. That aside, she had almost been crushed beneath the horse's hooves. Khale was right; she needed to be more careful.

By the time the pink sunrise had been augmented by brilliant oranges and yellows, they were ready to leave. Captain Thylian raised his sword in the air, and his soldiers nudged their horses after him as he broke into a trot towards the Gates of Édoras.

For the first few leagues, everything was silent except for the sweeping wind in the grasses and the steady clopping of the horses' hooves. The uneasy tension between the soldiers mounted until midday, when they angled off of the Great West Road and stopped beside the Anduin for a meal and a brief rest. The food seemed to loosen their tongues, and by the time they took to the road again, tales were being swapped and laughter and conversation exchanged.

"So, where're you from?"

Eiliel, startled from her reverie, glanced in surprise at the soldier riding beside her. "Aldburg," she muttered after a moment, looking determinedly at her hands.

"Do you have family there?"

"Yes, sir." 

He scoffed. "Don't call me 'sir', man, that's for kings and captains, not for the likes of me. My name is Macen, son of Myren."

She inclined her head politely, but she did not offer her own name until he laughed at her reticence and asked, "Will you tell me yours, or shall I simply leave you to your solitude and try to find someone who makes a rather more willing talker?"

Flushing, she answered, "Radathil, son of Dilvraen." She glanced at him again. He was perhaps around forty, burly and muscular, with a full beard and hair that had a redder sheen than many of the Rohirrim. His eyes were small and jovial, and they reminded her of a painting she had once seen at the marketplace in Aldburg, one of a ruddy dwarf with an axe slung over his shoulder.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen," she lied.

He laughed again, but this time it had a tinge of bitterness to it. "What, are they snatching them right out of the cradles now?"

"I'm not a child," she said defensively.

He let out a long breath. "You are not quite an adult, either. Go home, lad—find a maid and raise a family.Only after you have experienced life should you consider throwing it away for your kingdom."

"I can't go," she said. "I need the money."

He snorted. "And how long do you think the king can keep paying ten lisy'i a week to every soldier in his army?"

She looked sharply at him. "What do you mean?"

"Halin might be rich, but there is not enough gold in all of Rohan to pay what he is promising. It won't be two months before the payments stop coming to your families. The soldiers will begin deserting or losing hope, and before you know it, it will be two thousand Rohirrim against Gondor's ten."

Eiliel could feel her heart thumping painfully in her chest. Payments stopping? How would Mama continue paying for a doctor for Quenne and Papa? If this wasn't good enough, what else could they do?

It seemed that Macen noticed the effect his prediction was having on her, and he shook his head. "Don't listen to me, lad. Fate turned me into a bitter pessimist years ago. It won't do you any good to worry."

"What if the payments do stop coming?" she asked quietly.

He reached over and clapped her on the back. "Have faith. Every once in a while, everything turns out all right."

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They camped that night beside the Anduin, half a mile from the road. Leaving their horses at the water's edge, they removed their packs and gathered in a circle around a meager fire, where they passed around a few loaves of bread and some dried fruit. Eiliel was unperturbed by this less-than-luxurious meal, never having had a wide selection of food at home, but she noticed that some of the men cast a critical eye over their own portions. They were the richer ones, no doubt—those who had joined the éored not for the small salary, but for some abstract ideal like honor or glory. She felt an inexplicable bitter spark of resentment flare within her;she did not know why, but she detested these men who, having a choice in the matter, thought it was more honorable to ride off to war, leaving their homes and families behind, than to live a good life in peace. Eiliel hadn't left Aldburg three days ago, and her heart already longed to see Mama and Papa and Quenne again. She would give almost anything to be back with them, and it was only by constantly reminding herself that they needed the money that she forced herself to stay. She could not fathom why they would leave all they loved to go to battle.

Pushing her mind away from these thoughts, she returned to her food. For a while, all that could be heard was the rushing river a few hundred feet away from their fire. The men sat in silence, chewing slowly and gazing pensively into the flickering flames. Eiliel let her eyes wander over the group of soldiers, strangers to each other, that fate had unified into an éored. There were twenty-nine including her: some tall, some stocky, some young or old or haggard or fair or somewhere in between, each with his own life and his own troubles, his own experiences and his own fears. All united in a common cause, though, they did not seem so different.

The sound of a bird calling through the night, near enough to be heard over the Anduin, caught her ears. After a few moments, someone asked, "What kind of bird is that?"

There was silence for a moment, and then Macen, the man who had spoken to Eiliel earlier, answered. "It's a sanglærke, a meadow-dwelling bird."

"There's a legend about the sanglærke," a man directly across from Eiliel spoke up eagerly. He was quite young—she guessed even younger than herself—still full of the radiant enthusiasm of boyhood. When he realized that everyone's attention had focused on him, he flushed and fell silent.

"Tell us," someone prompted, but the man shook his head and mumbled, "It's an old wives' tale, a silly story that's for washerwomen, not for soldiers…"

Further prodding from his neighbors could not make him recount the tale, and the éored seemed doomed to silence once more when Macen rejoined, "I know the legend."

There was a murmur of interest from those who were listening.

"Before the oldest trees of Fangorn were as tall as a man, the stars were not so distant as they are now. The eagles, great, majestic, powerful, were strong enough to fly among them. Every night, they would soar among the stars, sovereigns of their world, unmatched in magnificence or in beauty.

"There was one, though, who was not like the others: he was born with a deformed wing that rendered flight impossible. He watched every night as the others took off from their perches in cliffs and trees and launched towards the black canopy that formed the sky, alighting on distant stars. He dreamed of joining his companions, but never could. He never left the crag of the cliff that was his home.

"One evening, as he watched the other eagles wistfully, wanting no more than to join them, the wind spoke to him. 'If you could have anything in the world,' it asked him, 'what would it be?' The little eagle answered instantly: 'I want to join my comrades in the sky.' 'Alas,' answered the wind sadly, 'it was never meant for you to soar with your friends. But maybe I can help nonetheless.' It enfolded the eagle in its arms and bore him down to the meadow below, placing him gently among the grasses. No, the wind could not give the little eagle a new wing, but he did give him one thing: it gave him a love for the ground. Since then, the sanglærke, content to make his nest in the grass, has never strayed far from the meadow, and the dreams of soaring among the stars are left for the eagles."

Macen lapsed into silence, and no one spoke for a long moment.

"You would have done well to listen to the lad," said a stern voice from outside the circle. "Legends are foolish tales for washerwomen, and they have no place during times of war. Soldiers who live in dreams do not live very long."

Captain Thylian, unnoticed by all, had emerged out of the darkness to stand silently behind them. Ever observant, he had surveyed them all as they listened to Macen's story. Their faces, while not believing, had nonetheless been entranced until hearing the captain's reprimand.

"We're starting two hours before dawn tomorrow," he said after a moment. "I suggest you retire."

He stepped into the ring of men and tossed a fagot of wood onto the fire, and his proximity to the flame suddenly threw his whole body into sharp relief.

He was not three seconds in the light before he stepped out again into the obscurity of darkness, but three seconds was enough. The men stared at him, aghast, in silence that made even the pounding of the Anduin seem muted in their ears. Eiliel wasn't sure at first that it was not a trick of the light, but the expressions on the others' faces quickly convinced her that her eyes had not lied.

Within the few seconds that it had taken Captain Thylian to drop the wood on the fire, every man realized—their captain was not of the Mark.

She suddenly noticed that she had not yet seen him with his hood off. He could almost have been Rohirric: the shape of his angular, chiseled face, though more common among Gondorians, was not unheard of in Rohan. He wore nothing that distinguished him from the rest; his only adornment was a thin, gold chain whose ornament rested unseen behind his tunic. It was his hair that betrayed him. No man native to Rohan had dark hair like his.

He gave no outward indication that he noticed his soldiers' stares, but Eiliel saw his eyes flash with mirthless humor, like a man who laughs bitterly at the cruel irony of his own desperate situation.

It was possible that Captain Thylian was one of the Rangers of the North, but it was unlikely. The Rangers were almost more of a myth than they were a people, and she, for one, had never seen one. She doubted that any had come this far south since Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the first king of Gondor in the fourth age. No, it was far more likely that he was a man of Gondor. He spoke with no accent and bore a Rohirric name, but that was hardly solid evidence that he had lived there all his life. Beyond that, Eiliel could draw no conclusions about his history, but she could guess at his character. Most Rohirrim would be honored to lead an éored to battle against Rohan's enemies, but Captain Thylian was a different matter: the enemies he was going to battle—to kill—were his own people.

Two burning emotions accosted her suddenly: curiosity and suspicion. This was a man whom they were supposed to trust to lead them into battle, plunge their lives into peril at his whim, obey blindly and without question. Yet he was not open with them; he was as enigmatic as the stormy sea that seemed to toss behind his eyes. She wanted to know his story—who this man was—before she handed her life to him.

She looked around her; many of the men had lowered their heads so that she could not see their faces, but some had kept them raised, and she was surprised by their expressions: most of them glared in open hostility at Captain Thylian as he turned his back and walked towards his tent. The prospect of a Gondorian leading them to war against the Gondorians was not one they embraced.

Turning her own face towards her hands, Eiliel tried to force away her own suspicion. He had done nothing to suggest that he was not loyal to the Mark, and the Captain of the Guard, Moran, had seemed to trust him well enough. Hadn't he even admonished them to take his and the king's confidence as reason enough to obey the captain? _That should be good enough for you,_ she reprimanded herself firmly. _You are subject to the king, and it is by his hand that Thylian was appointed captain._

That night, sleep was long in coming. She heard Khale's uneven breathing beside her and knew that he, too, lay awake. She guessed that they were not the only ones.

As the moon passed overhead, rising, reaching its zenith, and then sinking once more, Eiliel let her mind wander, but it kept coming back to Captain Thylian. She could not quell a fervent desire to know his story—somehow, she felt it would give her insight into who he was.

"Khale?" she whispered.

"Mmm?" he muttered sleepily.

"What do you think…"

Her voice trailed off into silence, but he did not need to hear the rest of the question. He drew a deep breath and rolled over to face her.

"Eiliel," he whispered. "A man cannot help where heis born or how he looks. Those are not the qualities that define him. Thus far, he has given me no reason to believe that he is unworthy of our trust and loyalty, and it is that by which I will judge him. It is your choice—you can decide for yourself whether or not to accept him. But as for me, my fealty lies with my king, and therefore, with my captain."

Silenced by his conviction and slightly ashamed that she had asked in the first place, she turned her face towards the stars, and, sinking into a deeply pensive reverie, she eventually slipped off to sleep.


	14. Part II: Chapter 5

My excuse is real this time. AP tests are looming ever closer, and I have time for almost nothing else. Which means that the next one might not come for a while, either--not until the middle of May, probably, when there won't be any more to do in most of my classes. Thanks for bearing with me. 

Thylian awoke with a start.

The darkness around him was impenetrably black, and only his ragged breathing broke the silence. Motionless, muscles taut, he peered around in the obscurity for any movement inside his tent—he could swear that there had been something beside him just moments before. Several long seconds passed, and when nothing happened, he began to relax. He realized that his right hand was grasping hilt of his sword; releasing it, he flexed his fingers and let his head fall back to the ground.

"It was just a dream," he muttered to himself. "You're overreacting."

Slowly, his breathing began to calm and his body ease, but he did not allow his mind to do the same. He was struggling to remember what it was he had been dreaming about, but it was slipping away as quickly as water through his fingers. He told himself it didn't matter, but some dark, inexplicable curiosity within him would not be sated with such an answer.

It returned to him with sudden clarity.

He was a child, sitting on his mother's lap, listening to her soft singing and watching his father, quill in hand, hunched over a stack of parchment. This was not so much a dream as it was a memory: how many times had the three of them sat beside the fire in his father's study before bedtime, undisturbed and content? But it veered abruptly from memory into the wild realm of dreams. Soldiers poured into the room, which was no longer the king's study, but the top of the Tower of Ecthelion—Thylian, now a grown man, was fighting one of them in the chaos—the soldier looked up suddenly—he found himself face to face with Teolir—he, Thylian, wanted with all his heart to stop but found to his horror that he could not—he thrust his sword through his opponent's torso and caught the body as it crumpled—his eyes sought his friend's features, but it was no longer Teolir—his father's lifeless eyes stared up at him from an ashen face—

It was then that he awoke.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, silently berating himself. _Dreams are foolish fantasies. Pull yourself together, Captain._

He had not lain there for long before he decided that sleep would not return to him. He left the tent, shoulders hunched broodingly against the chilly night air. In spite of the heat of the previous day, the earth had not retained its warmth.

The moon was approaching the western horizon; he realized that it was soon time to arise anyway. He took down his tent, woke the first soldier he happened upon, sleeping in the long grasses, and told him to rouse the rest. Slowly, the camp stirred; in half an hour, they were ready to depart.

Thylian felt many hostile stares on his back the entire time they were preparing to leave. He knew that several of them—as many as half, perhaps—distrusted him, a suspicion that had been simmering since the previous night, when they had seen him with his hood down.

He shook off the bitterness welling within him, knowing that it could do no more than make his day miserable. At a signal from him, they mounted their horses and rode off by the fading light of the moon.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The second day was even hotter than the first. As the sun rose higher, their progress slowed, having to return all too frequently to the Anduin for water. By noon, Thylian had decided to simply remain by the river rather than follow the Great West Road as they were supposed to. He designated two soldiers, relieved every hour, to stay on the road in case a messenger tried to find them.

As darkness approached, Thylian called for a halt. Gratefully, the soldiers clambered off their horses, peeled off their armor, and began setting up camp. As soon as their bedrolls were laid out, they began passing around a meager supper, conversing in quiet voices.

Thylian stood by the edge of the camp, arms folded, pensively gazing at the sky as the brilliant stars emerged overhead. He was trying to gauge how long it would take to reach the border at this rate—they had not made nearly as much progress today has he hoped they would. The more they fell behind, the more advantage Gondor would have.

He tried to thrust Gondor out of his mind, but it stubbornly refused to go. He did not want to think about what might happen when it finally came time to meet them in battle. As hard as he had tried, fifteen years had not been enough to rob him entirely of his heritage. He had sworn to Teolir that he was a man of Rohan, and that, as such, he would fight, die, and even kill for his kingdom, and he was resolved to do so unfailingly. What he was afraid of was that with each man he slaughtered, he would die a little bit within himself.

He was so absorbed in his grim contemplations that he did not notice two large shapes looming out of the night until they were nearly upon him. They seemed to materialize out of the darkness, enormous shadows that resolved themselves into mounted riders as they neared—they were the sentries that Thylian had ordered to continue along the road.

One of them leapt off his horse and approached the camp, pulling his helmet off of his head. The other turned to lead their mounts towards the other horses, and it was only then that Thylian realized that there were more than two: four other horses were being led behind the soldiers' mounts.

The first soldier walked towards the ring of men and inclined his head towards Thylian. "Sir, we came across these horses heading back to Edoras along the Great West Road. We thought it best to bring them here. They obviously belong to men of the Mark—one of their saddles is marked with a livery stamp from Edoras, and another one is from Snowborne."

Thylian watched the second soldier approach them, having left all six horses with the others. He was concerned; the only place the stray beasts could have come from was from the éored that had gone before them, and they would only have abandoned their mounts if they were in serious trouble.

"You did well, soldiers," he said after a moment, nodding his assent to them. "Help yourself to some food."

They thanked him and joined their comrades, and Thylian continued to gaze broodingly out into the darkness. This time, however, his thoughts were focused on something entirely different. They were with Teolir, the prince of Rohan, the captain of the first éored—a friend so close to him that they were like brothers.

He turned abruptly to face his men. "Soldiers," he commanded, "I need a patrol of scouts to come with me—right now. I'm afraid that something has happened to the éored that departed before us, and the sooner we find out, the better."

There was a murmur of mixed emotions, exasperation and concern coming from different men and conflicting with each other for dominance. He designated four soldiers at random, beckoning them to follow him. Striding towards the horses, he found his own and waited for those he had picked to come. One of them had leapt up at his command, but the other three took their time, grudgingly standing and walking slowly after him. His impatience building, he called sharply to them to hurry up and pulled himself into his saddle.

The five of them struck off towards the Great West Road, but they stayed far enough away from it that they would be hard to see from a distance. Thylian led the way in silence, closely followed by one soldier; the other three hung further behind. He regretted choosing men to accompany him instead of allowing them to volunteer; he knew that those who do things willingly generally do them better.

He was not sure what they were looking for—some sign, perhaps, that the last éored had passed here safely or that they had been attacked. Whatever it was, he was half-convinced that they would miss it in the dark. His eyes scanned the road to his right, hardly even glancing ahead of him as his horse moved forward. He could hear the three men murmuring to each other behind him, but he paid them no heed, knowing that nothing he did could force them to be more attentive.

As the moon rose, reached its apex, and began its descent, still no sign of Teolir's éored had been seen. They were drawing near to a line of trees against the mountains: since they could not have yet reached the Druadan, he knew it must be the Firien Wood.

As they came to the trees, one of the three men who lagged behind spurred his horse forward and drew level with Thylian.

"Captain," he said with a trace of disdain that put Thylian on his guard, "I don't think we're going to find anything."

"What's your name?"

"Savihn."

"We'll keep searching until we do, Savihn," he answered firmly, not taking his eyes off the road."

"If we keep going, we won't get any sleep tonight."

Thylian warily noted the lack of a respectful term such as 'sir' or 'captain.' He was not foolish enough to insist upon a recognition of his authority with every sentence, but he felt that this stemmed not from forgetfulness or a feeling equality, but from condescension and derision. This man was one who despised his captain and scorned his authority because he was Gondorian.

"We will keep going," he answered calmly, but there was a hint of a warning in his voice. "You can sleep on your horses tomorrow."

Savihn's eyes flashed, but he fell back with his companions. The fourth soldier, the one who rode neither ahead with the captain or behind with the others, had watched the exchange mutely, an unreadable expression in his eyes. With a glance at him, Thylian continued on, plunging into the trees and ignoring the angry glares he received from the other men.

It was nigh impossible to see anything; he knew that even if there were some indication of what had befallen the other éored, they hardly had a chance of finding it. Still, as long as that possibility existed, he had to try. He told himself it was for the good of the éored, but in his heart he knew it was because he could not bring himself to abandon Teolir.

He tried not to let himself worry, trying to convince his nerves that what would come would come and there was no stopping it when it did. He could not, however, help but feel a deep sense of foreboding every time his mind was drawn back to Teolir. His horse, Mena, an old but sturdy mare who had been his companion since arriving in Rohan, seemed to sense his anxiety; she whinnied softly and pawed the ground nervously every time he shifted.

Now she halted abruptly and let out an angry-sounding snort. Thylian, suddenly stirred from his diligent, almost trance-like observation of the road, jerked his head up. Savihn had reigned his mount in front of the captain, blocking his path. Thylian felt open aggression radiating from his posture and demeanor—his face was hard-set, his back rigid.

"Captain, this is a fruitless endeavor."

Thylian's hand slipped subconsciously towards the hilt of his sword. Keeping his face calm, he answered, "We will keep going. We are not done yet."

"_I _am done," Savihn spat forcefully, "and so are Bargail and Huthan."

The other two soldiers had come up from behind him to join their companion. Bargail, a belligerent look on his face that did not quite fit his lanky body, added, "We wouldn't have come in the first place, but we didn't want to make a scene in front of the rest of the éored."

Thylian smiled humorlessly. "So instead you make a scene in the middle of a thick forest, with no one for miles around to stop you. I applaud your courage, soldiers." He tried to steer Mena around the men, but Huthan blocked his path. Instead he reined his horse back a few feet, glancing behind him. He was momentarily startled—there was a man on a horse waiting, silent, some fifty feet away from them. As he turned to face the other three men, he realized that it must be the fourth soldier that had come with them.

"You think you can patronize us," he growled, "so high and powerful, shielded by your title of captain—but you're not even from the Mark. You have no right to talk like that to us, not when you're a scum-eating Gondorian who would like to feed on the blood of our wives and babes."

"That's ridiculous," Thylian said curtly. "I am every bit as loyal to Rohan as you are. More so, probably, judging by your willingness to turn on your captain as soon as you are faced by a minor difficulty."

"You are no captain of mine," Huthan said coldly. "I cannot honor the commands of traitorous filth like you."

"Traitorous?" Thylian repeated mildly. "I see three traitors here, aye, but I am not one of them."

Savihn laughed callously. "You cannot be a man of Gondor serving as a captain of Rohan without being traitorous to one or the other."

"I do not agree with that conjecture, but if that must be the case, then I am a traitor to Gondor."

"Then you do not deny that you are not from Rohan?"

Thylian laughed bitterly. "What good would it do? It is evident, is it not?"

"Why then did you keep your hood on so long, instead of revealing yourself immediately?" Bargail demanded. "I see a two-faced snake emerging in your words, _captain_." He hissed the last word mockingly, spitting on the ground as he did so.

"I thought it would be best that you learn of it when there was another captain nearby who could restore order and vouch for my loyalty, so I was going to wait until we were reunited with Prince Teolir's éored." He glanced over his shoulder once more. The soldier was still standing there, unmoving, but Thylian thought he could read his expression by the faint light of the moon: it was a look of mingled fear, indecision, and guilt. As their gazes met, the soldier shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes.

"Was it a careless blunder, then, that led you to show it early?"

"I decided to trust to the integrity and fair, honest judgment that was once innate in the men of Rohan. They were once smart enough not to judge good and evil by what they saw on the outside. I see now that I was wrong to believe that this capacity still existed."

Thylian knew that he should not goad them, but his own anger was rising within him. Had not General Moran instructed them to obey their captain no matter what they thought of him? Was the trust of the captain of the guard—what was more, the king—not enough for them?

"What's this?" Savihn hissed. "A Gondorian dares to challenge our intelligence?"

"Intelligence?" Thylian raised his eyebrows. "No, I was merely challenging your character."

Huthan's sword was out of his sheath in the blink of an eye, but Thylian's was faster. A blow that would have taken his arm off landed instead with a ringing clash against his blade. Thylian's eyes flashed as their hilts locked. "What do you think to do?" he asked softly. "Will you kill me, Huthan?"

"A traitorous Gondorian is the captain of an éored—the honor of the men of Rohan calls for justice. If killing you is what it takes…"

"There is no justice in murder."

He disengaged his blade barely in time to turn towards Bargail and deflect another blow. He had given up hope of the fourth soldier intervening on his behalf, but he knew he could not win this fight alone, not with three opponents to fight. The other two lunged at him, and once more he had to spin around in his saddle to block their swords. He tried to pull Mena back, tugging on the reigns, but she seemed unwilling to budge, letting out a nervous, high-pitched whinny. A heavy blow glanced off his armor; it did not pierce it, but the force left his right arm half-numb.

It was all Thylian could do to protect himself: Bargail's sword swung towards his leg, and, though it missed, it nicked Mena in the side. She snorted loudly and reared onto her hind legs, flinging her rider into the air. Thylian thudded to the ground several feet away, rolling as he hit to minimize the impact. Spasms of pain shot through his body, and the air was knocked out of his lungs. His limbs were on fire, and a momentary paralysis seemed to have struck him, but he turned his eyes towards his opponents.

A feeling of horror seeped through him as he saw what was happening. Mena's hooves were still kicking the air, and Savihn was facing her, blade in hand. Even a simpleton could not miss an opening like that. His sword plunged deep into the horse's chest, blood spurting out onto his hand and sleeve. There was an unearthly scream, and as he withdrew his blade, now stained red, the animal's hooves hit the ground, her legs collapsed, and then she lay still.

Thylian bellowed in rage and anguish, pushing away the pain and forcing himself to stand. Bargail, however, had dismounted and come up behind him; a dizzying blow from the hilt of his sword brought him to his knees. He barely held on to consciousness as he tried to stand again, only to be forced to his hands and knees, where this time, he stayed.

He drew in long, painful breaths, trying to calm his heart rate and stifle the adrenaline in his veins and the grief in his heart. His horse had been almost as close a friend as Teolir was, and one foolish soldier's sword had ended her life.

Finally raising his head, he looked harshly at Savihn, who, with Huthan and Bargail, was standing above him. "You didn't have to kill her," he whispered. "She had already thrown me off." He tried once more to stand, but Huthan's hand on his shoulder forced him back down and rested a blade against his throat.

"Are you ready to die, captain?" he demanded scornfully. "You didn't think you wouldn't even make it to the first battle, did you?"

There was a moment of silence that seemed to span several eternities.

"Stop it."

The voice was young, unfamiliar, though it seemed somehow as if he had heard it before. Huthan dropped the sword, and Thylian sprang to his feet, stepping quickly away from his attackers.

The fourth soldier was standing there, his own dagger at Huthan's neck. A gray light that had emerged in the east made his face visible, and the emotion etched onto it was a mixture of anger, determination, and indignation—barely a trace of the earlier fear. Thylian saw his hand shaking and knew immediately that the blade threatening to kill Huthan was no more than that: a mere threat. This soldier was not a killer.

Thylian picked up his own sword, unhindered by Bargail or Savihn, whose eyes were fixed warily on the knife at their companion's throat.

"You call yourselves men of Rohan," the soldier said quietly. "If you are, I would be ashamed to be the same."

Savihn laughed uneasily, his bloody hand still clutching his sword rising slightly. "You're just a lad. Let Huthan go, and we'll do the same for you."

Thylian, however, had stolen up behind him. He seized Savihn's wrist and wrested the blade away. Bargail, who had sheathed his own sword before dismounting, grasped the hilt, but Thylian, now armed with two blades, tapped one against his chest and the other against hand that was unsheathing the sword. Cursing, Bargail let it fall back in.

Thylian removed the blade himself and tossed it to the ground. He jerked his head in the direction of their horses. "Go," he said hoarsely. "The army of Rohan has no need of you anymore." He nodded to the soldier, who dropped the dagger from Huthan's throat and put it rather awkwardly into his belt.

The three men glanced at each other.

"Get out of here," Thylian spat. "All three of you, go home. Savihn, you can leave your horse as repayment for mine."

Savihn made a noise in his throat, but the captain snarled, "Or if you prefer, I can kill you so that you'll have no need of it anymore."

The man did not protest.

Thylian watched as they left, throwing furtive looks at him every few seconds as though they could not believe he was letting them go. Huthan and Bargail mounted their horses and rode away immediately. Savihn, throwing a scathing glare at Thylian and the soldier, slunk off in the opposite direction, disappearing into the rising dawn.

The captain turned wearily to the soldier. "I believe," he said quietly, studying the man's features, "that I owe you my life. I am in your debt."

The soldier inclined his head respectfully. "You are mistaken, Captain—I have simply repaid mine."

Thylian's brow creased: he had no idea what he was referring to. "What do you mean?"

"Before we left Edoras, sir, you pulled a soldier out from beneath the hooves of a bucking horse. I am he—Radathil, son of Dilvraen."

Thylian extended his hand, and the soldier took it rather hesitantly. "I am glad, then, that a lack of horsemanship skills does not necessarily translate to a lack of valor or good sense. You have my thanks, soldier."

Radathil cleared his throat. "Your—your horse, Captain—" He glanced at the dark mass on the ground a few feet away, and he seemed for a moment at a loss for words. "I am truly sorry," he said at last. "Savihn was a bloodthirsty traitor who deserved, by mandate of the law, to die."

Thylian drew a long breath, and then he shook his head. "No man has the right to take another's life in the name of justice."

"He would have taken yours."

"And had I not spared his, I would be no better than he."

Radathil had no reply for this, and he fell silent; Thylian turned towards the horse that Savihn had left. The soldier mounted his own and maneuvered to face his captain. "Are we to continue the search, sir?"

Thylian glanced at the rising sun, exhaled slowly, and put his foot in the stirrup. "No."

"Do you think that the prince's éored has met with any harm?"

He shook his head, but he was sure that Radathil could sense his true emotions—yes, indeed, he _did _think something had happened to Teolir and his soldiers. But he, Thylian, had a responsibility to fulfill towards his own men: he had to rejoin them and lead them on, regardless of what had befallen his friend.

As he swung himself into the saddle, a jarring pain tore through his bruised body: he realized that he must have badly injured his back in his fall. Trying to suppress a grimace of pain, he grunted and kicked the horse forward, unwilling to let Radathil see that he was hurt. The lad, however, was more perceptive than his captain gave him credit for. He expressed his concern, and although Thylian waved it off unconcernedly, the soldier continued to look at him in such a way that convinced him that he was not fooling anyone.

They rode in silence most of the way, but, when there was not half a league between them and the rest of the soldiers, Radathil spoke.

"Sir—Captain," he began rather haltingly, "I owe you an apology."

"Whatever for?"

"For waiting so long before—before I decided to help you."

"You saved my life: I don't much care how you managed it."

"Indeed, but your horse might have been saved as well, and the others might not have gotten so angry."

When Thylian did not offer a reply to this, he continued. "I was… afraid, sir. I am no use with a blade, and three against two in their favor seemed like awfully risky odds. And I—" he flushed guiltily, "I had not entirely reconciled myself towards having a Gondorian captain. I meant to, I really did—my brother is not so foolish as to judge you by the color of your hair, and he had convinced my mind of the same—but something of prejudice still lingered in my heart. I—I am sorry, Captain."

Thylian gazed at him piercingly. "Few are the men who will reveal their feelings with such unaffected candor and no cunning designs to further ambition."

A sort of half smile flitted across Radathil's face as he scanned the horizon for the first sight of the éored they had left. "Few indeed," he said softly. "Few indeed."


End file.
